


A Face in the Codex

by clowncartardis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Amnesia fic, Angst, Chameleon Arch (Doctor Who), F/F, Fluff, Rating will change, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23712517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowncartardis/pseuds/clowncartardis
Summary: A year has passed since returning from Gallifrey when Yaz meets a librarian with the Doctor's face. Despite their similarities, this June Smith doesn't recognize her at all. Remembering something about a chameleon arch, Yaz takes it upon herself to help her beloved Doctor recover her memories.But what happens when she falls in love?
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 84
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to freefallvertigo for their help! go read their THINGS!

“This paintin's creepy,” Ryan mutters, the edge to his voice curdled like milk gone off. Yaz shrugs, adjusting the worn cloth strap of her bag over her shoulder. 

It's not a bad painting—they've seen worse—it's just… intense. With all the staring. 

“Oi,” Graham says gruffly, tapping Ryan on the shoulder with a rolled-up leaflet. He's been standing all sombre, which means he's missing Grace, her loss felt so acutely it snatches his breath each time he sees something she'd like. “Be nice. This here is the most famous painting in all of Spain. It's the best painting from, er—” 

He unrolls the glossy flyer with a flourish, smacking it straight. He scans the fine text through the bottom part of his new reading glasses. 

“The Spanish Golden Age. See? What do you know 'bout the Spanish Golden Age, boy?”

“Fame don't matter,” Ryan says, shuffling out of Graham's way. “They've got creepy faces. I bet they were secretly robots. Or—or what if they're still alive in there, watching all us visitors come and stare at them every day.”

“Don’t,” Yaz warns him. “Don't put ideas like that in my head.”

Her dreams don't need more fodder. 

_Is she here?_ Yaz wonders, searching the muted browns and blacks of the canvas for secrets. _If I look hard enough behind the shadows, am I going to spot her?_

_If I were her, where would I be?_

She'd be where the painting begins, trying to make the dour little girl laugh between painting sessions. 

She could never stand to see a serious child. 

Yaz slides over when someone bumps into her, the new perspective illuminating the painter’s critical gaze. 

_What was the crisis of the day? Was it killer, sentient paint? Scheming royals collaborating with Machiavellian aliens? Ghosts that cause religious intolerance?_

Something had to have been wrong—there was always something wrong. 

No way something this important happened without her. 

_She has to be here._

Graham's hand settles heavy on her shoulder, a solid weight that both grounds and traps her. 

“Anything?” he asks. 

“Dunno,” Yaz answers, chewing on the inside of her cheek. 

They've been at this for nearly a year now, her and Graham and Ryan. Saving every pound for traveling together. 

She used to save so she could move into a flat of her own. Now everything she has goes into funding these trips. 

They couldn't return to normal. Not like that. Not after Gallifrey. Not the way she'd left them. How could she tell them to live great lives as though they could do that _without_ her?

As though her haunted face, eyes shining with unshed tears, clutching a bomb like something precious, was _forgettable_. 

Yaz couldn't sleep for weeks once they returned, the feeling of the Doctor jerking away as though Yaz's touch hurt her playing on loop every time she closed her eyes. 

She's doing better now. They're all doing better. 

Traveling was Graham's idea. He said they needed to have fun and keep busy. To stay connected. 

To honour her memory, although none of them quite believe she's dead. 

There's a big map hung in Graham's living room now, pushpins marking where they've been, where they're going and where they want to go. His fridge is so crowded with photos and magnets that something always falls when Yaz goes for a drink. 

They travel well together, even without her, even though it takes _forever_ now. Ryan, with his social media savvy, finds them flights and Airbnbs for cheap. Graham carefully plans their itineraries, virtually touring museums and reading reviews of every coffee shop and pub in a 20-kilometer radius to maximize their time. 

And Yaz? Yaz searches: reading, listening, observing. She looks for clues, looks for signs— _any_ signs, flimsy as they might be—of the Doctor's existence. 

They need proof she was real. 

They're going to find her. 

One she started looking, the TARDIS was everywhere. A mosaic in Rhodes has what can only be an old police box in the corner, a single yellow shard on the roof calling to Yaz like a beacon. A Mayan stela has familiar windows and doors chiselled near the base, the details of the warning placard lost to time. An otherwise boring lecture on Persian carpet restoration reveals an interlocking pattern of familiar blue rectangles. 

There are other signs, too. A 10th century emakimono features a skinny man in a pinstripe suit, running from a monster with crab arms, so clearly out of place it has to be one of her old faces. At a photography exhibit on 20th century child labourers, it's Ryan who spots a slender figure in a long coat, hood pulled up, sat against a brick wall with some grim-faced oyster shuckers. 

There's a bronze casting of a sonic screwdriver—with the Sheffield steel imprint still—that some stuffy docent swears is a religious artifact. 

She's been there. She's been there all along, for all of human history. Every shred of evidence is a stamp of validation that what they experienced together was real. 

“She were prolly somewhere else,” Ryan says, shrugging back at the painting in front of them. “You know she has no patience for royals.”

Yaz grins, remembering the Doctor's irreverence running around a King Leopold's court. She wasn't even trying to taunt him at first—she'd genuinely been trying to take them to the site of the world's largest rubber band ball, but wound up crash-landing in 19th century Belgium instead. 

That was an odd trip. 

“What's up next? We're done with this room.” Yaz asks. 

Graham shuffles his map. “Let's see… on this floor there's that temporary exhibit on Da Vinci. How's about we take a butcher's and then go to the café for lunch?”

Ryan smiles. “Sounds good, Grandad. I'm proper hungry.”

Yaz hikes her bag further onto her shoulder, leading the way across the hall toward the temporary exhibit. Even in low light, the museum is overstimulating—full to bursting, a cacophony of languages overlapping as families and friends struggle to make themselves heard. 

Yaz takes Ryan’s hand, who takes Graham’s. They make their way to the opposite wall, where a large hand-drawn portrait of a tired-eyed old man is posted. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, reading from a small sign outside the exhibit. He’s busy scanning the QR code for the audio tour. They take in every scrap of information like dutiful students—the smallest detail could be a clue. “It’s all on loan from the Royal Collection Trust. We didn’t need to leave Britain.”

 _“Puh_ ,”Graham puffs. “Then we wouldn’t be in Spain. You seemed to like Spain last night, son. Chatting with those girls at the pub.”

Ryan grins, wide enough it tugs at his cheeks. He pulls out a set of wireless earbuds. “Yeah, they were a’right, I s’pose.”

Yaz itches to go inside. There’s something calling her—something important. 

Unlike most of what they’ve seen at the museum so far, the exhibit is demure. Intimate. These are Da Vinci’s drawings and sketches, his doodles and scribbles. The famous paintings are in other museums—they’ve a trip to Paris planned in three months, Graham reminds them when Ryan expresses his disappointment. 

“How’d he do it?” Graham wonders, staring at an enlarged image of a horse’s behind. “His polished pieces are so proper, but this shows his _process_. Look at the genius.”

“He cut people open,” Ryan says, too loud and horrified. “He cut people open and _still_ didn’t understand how babies worked.”

Yaz drifts away from them, toward an enlargement of a town from above. 

“ _A Map of Imola_ ,” Yaz reads, glancing between the enlargement and the map encased in class before her. She traces the curve of a river with her finger. 

“Good eye,” a smoky voice to her right says. Yaz jumps. “The map is one of his most impressive works, mathematically speaking.”

The woman is dressed in a museum uniform, curly hair caught in a bun. 

“Yeah?” Yaz asks. The map is crinkled, stains marking the parchment like liver spots. 

“Helicopters and satellites weren’t invented for hundreds of years,” the docent says, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Yaz. “He had to invent an overhead map while stuck on the ground.”

Yaz tilts her head to look at it sideways. 

“We’re positive he measured every turn in the city by degree and length,” the docent continues. “Had a few special tools to do it, like fancy compasses. See how the map is split in eighths?”

“Yeah,” Yaz says, tilting her head the other way. “How’d he get the proportions right?”

The docent chuckles. “He measured _everything_! Walking around the entire city, if you can believe. He may have even invented an odometer to keep track. Here, follow me. We have a manuscript of his on loan from the _Biblioteca Nacional_ —the second codex goes into some detail on the odometer.”

Yaz follows, nearly catching her foot on the carpet. 

A large screen is set up with a book encased in plexiglass in front of it. 

“Here,” the docent says, gesturing to a tablet on a stand. “We can scroll through the codex, one minute...”

She flips through more drawings too fast for Yaz’s eyes to process before settling on a yellowed page. 

“ _Voila_ ,” she says proudly. “The odometer. It drops a little ball every—”

The world drops out from under Yaz like a sudden loss of gravity. There’s a familiar face sketched opposite an invention: arched eyebrows, frown lines, strong jaw and all. 

“Doctor,” she gasps. 

“Oh, good,” the docent says. “Most people can’t read his script, but even backwards _dottore_ means doctor. No one knows why it’s so near this young boy—the face is feminine, but the hair is too short for the period…”

“No,” Yaz whispers. Her eyes burn. It’s the first time she’s seen the Doctor’s face in over a year. She looks calm there, a faint smile tugging her lips. 

“If you’re interested in this figure,” the docent adds, flipping to the next page. “He’s got drawings of others—there’s debates about the translations, or if he even bothered to label them, but we think they helped map the city.” 

It’s her. It’s her and Graham and Ryan, sketched plainly on the page.

They were there. 

They were there, and they’ve never met Da Vinci. She’d have remembered _that_. 

It means she’s alive. She comes back for them. It’s going to be okay. They’re going to find her—they’re going to fix this. 

“Are you all right?” the docent asks, her hand hovering over Yaz’s arm. Yaz’s face and neck are sticky—

Oh. 

She’s crying. 

Graham, mercifully, spots her. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says, stepping between Yaz and the docent. “My friend here just gets emotional about old notebooks, and, uh, wheelbarrows. T’s’all good, I’ve got it from here. Thank you for your time.”

He smiles pointedly at the woman until she takes her leave, rushing to attend to a yellow-haired child attempting to climb over a rope to touch a glass case.

“What’s got you worked up, hon?” Graham asks, pressing her face into his shoulder. He smells like worn leather and clean cotton and breath mints. Yaz lets out a shuddering breath. 

“Grandad,” Ryan whispers, slipping his earbuds into his pocket. “Grandad, look. It’s us.” 

The hand gently stroking her hair freezes. 

Ryan turns the page and makes a wounded noise deep in his throat, like he’s trying to choke back tears. 

“What does this mean?” he whispers, voice small and vulnerable. 

“We never met the man,” Graham mutters, reaching for Ryan. “Ryan, we never met him, but he clearly knows us. Knows _her._ We helped him design a bloody map.”

Yaz hiccups, stuffing her knuckles into her mouth to muffle the sound. People are starting to notice. 

“Oh, cockle,” Graham says, rubbing Yaz’s shoulder. His voice is thick. “We’ve seen what we need to see here. Let’s go collect ourselves. Let’s go back to that pub near the hotel—even the briskest of teas won’t sort me out now”

“Y-yeah,” Yaz mutters, wiping furiously at her face. Ryan grabs for her hand as they leave, clinging to her for support as they make their way through the too-bright streets of Madrid.

* * *

Back in the hotel, they watch documentaries on Da Vinci and devour every scrap of work of his that’s ever been catalogued, scouring the Internet for any further indications of the Doctor. They don’t find any. 

They visit the exhibit twice more, staring pleadingly at their friend’s face until other guests ask if they can view the codex.

Their discovery changes everything, but it changes nothing. 

They return to Sheffield, where Yaz half-expects a familiar blue box to be waiting for them outside her tower block. They’d solved the puzzle, right? Now she’ll come back. 

Light grey skies and a wind as unsettled as her stomach greet them instead. Yaz’s disappointment tastes like rust. 

Ryan's new job as a mechanic starts the day after their return. Graham confers with his secondary schoolers, having taken to volunteerism when he realized a quiet retirement wasn't for him. 

Yaz graduates from her probationary period—she’s a real officer now, her promotion a bright spot in a life that otherwise feels as if the colour has been bled from it. 

She’s patrolling near the main library one afternoon, having just responded to a minor bike accident, when a figure with chin-length blonde hair in a long grey jumper crosses the street in front of her. 

Yaz’s blood turns to ice. 

Is it? 

Is it _her_? 

It’s not like she hasn’t caught sight of look-alikes before, only to have her thin hope torn like tissue paper. 

“Doctor,” Yaz whispers, breaking into a run. She darts across the road without looking, thoughts of oncoming traffic forgotten. 

She bursts into the library, ducking behind an alcove to calm her racing heart. As a police officer, Yaz can’t go bursting into a place all sweaty and wide-eyed. It sets a bad example and causes unnecessary panic. 

_Focus on your breathing. Five seconds in… hold it. Five seconds out._

Curling her fingers around the coarse edge of the wall, Yaz pulls herself up, peeking around the corner in a move that’s pure muscle memory.

The blonde is there, behind a desk, her head turned as she talks to a patron. Yaz can’t see her face. 

But when she turns. 

It’s _her_. 

Yaz can’t breathe again. 

She fumbles for her phone to text Ryan, but decides against it and shoves it back in her pocket. 

_That’s wrong_ , she tells herself. _Can’t just tell him it’s the Doctor—she’d tell me that’s answering the question ‘fore I’ve asked it. Who’s this person, really? What are they doing here?_

The Doctor wouldn’t return without coming back for them, right? 

After a steadying breath, Yaz marches up to the counter. The woman smiles broadly when she sees her, eyes lit up in an achingly familiar way. 

“Hiya,” she chirps, leaning forward on her arms. It’s _her_ voice: clear and bright, smart and kind. Yaz wants to barrel over the desk to hug her, to hit her, to feel her solid in her arms—she needs to make sure she’s real. “What can I do you for?”

They’re strangers now. Why is the Doctor treating her like a stranger? 

Yaz works her throat, her heart beating too fast to get words out. 

“Don’t know what we offer? That’s okay! The library is a great resource,” the librarian says, grinning. “We’ve a computer room, a readin’ room, a section for kids, CDs, DVDs, and tons of online resources. We offer classes and have two… no, three book clubs right now. The one on Tuesdays has coffee, if you like coffee. We’re hosting a local production of _Love Labour’s Lost_ if you like a bit of Shakespeare. Oh! We also have books! Loads of ‘em.”

She laughs, gesturing to the walls of books around them. 

_What’s she playing at?_

“Do you need a library card?” the librarian asks, lowering her voice as she leans closer to Yaz. “It’s okay if you don’t have one yet—I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me. I’m quite trustworthy. Best secret-keeper north of Nottingham.” 

She even prattles on like her. It’s too much of a coincidence, her showing up like this—it’s connected, somehow. 

When Yaz nods, the librarian presents her the form with a flourish. Yaz fills out her information on autopilot, searching for any signal that the librarian knows who Yaz is. If she does, Yaz can’t tell. 

She needs more information. 

But she can’t just ask a stranger how many hearts she has or whether she lives in a spaceship. 

“Have you been working here long?”

It’s a neutral question. Safe. 

“Oh, no, just transferred a month ago,” the librarian answers. “I were living out west… before. You know how bureaucracy is…”

Her eyes glaze over, unfocused. A brief look of anger, so familiar, flickers over her face. After the quickest of moments, she turns her attention back to Yaz. 

“What sorts of books do you like?” she asks as she pulls the form back. “I can give you a recommendation while I get your card processed.”

“Sci-fi,” Yaz blurts out. “History.”

The librarian blinks in confusion. 

“Historical sci-fi?” Her nose scrunches in a familiar way that _hurts_. “I’d’ve taken you for a mystery girl myself, officer.”

Yaz’s heart constricts, seizing to a halt. This is too much, too confusing. She needs air. The officer hands her a library card and when their fingers brush it feels like an electric shock.

‘I’ve got to go’, Yaz blurts out, pushing herself off the desk with enough force that she stumbles backwards. ‘Just remembered about a meetin’—a training—sommat important.’

‘Oh’, the librarian says, her eyebrows drawing together in concern, a deep furrow etched between them. ‘Be well, then. Good meeting you! My name is June, by the way. June Smith. Come back if you have any questions!'

Yaz runs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to freefallvertigo for betareading! Go read their things. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed last time—your enthusiastic responses are so encouraging. <3

Thursdays at four are for tea at Graham's. Every week for a year, unless they're traveling. 

There are three rules: don't be tardy, don't be mardy, and no cell phones at the table until after the first cup.

"How's your week been, Ryan?" Yaz asks, dipping a gluten-free digestive into her mug. She still hasn't told them about the Doctor—isn’t sure how—but it’s only been a day. She’s still figuring it out herself. 

Ryan shrugs, running his hand along his jaw. "New job, y'know. Tryin’ to remember that I'm not s'posed to be perfect right away, and that it’s okay if it takes me a little while to learn stuff or if I make mistakes. Mainly been trying to fix internal compasses and satnavs, anyway. Something's making them go all wonky."

"Your boss treating you right?" Graham checks in, his eyebrows knit in concern. 

"Oh, yeah," Ryan deflects. He doesn't like to talk about this sort of stuff—doesn’t like this sort of attention. "She's fair, and the other workers at the shop are nice. I'm just worried is all." 

"I’m sure you’re already brilliant," Yaz says, her grin half-sour with anxiety. 

Ryan ducks his head bashfully. He’s going to be successful. Despite worrying about his dyspraxia ruining things, he’d passed his next level of certification with flying colours. 

“I told you,” Yaz continues. “My dad’s bringing in the car on Monday. He’s gonna pretend not to know you and tell your boss how great you are at the end.”

Ryan laughs, reaching out to pluck a grape from the bowl in front of him. “Tell Hakim he doesn’t have to do that.”

“Tell him yourself,” Yaz shoots back. “I know he texts you.”

Ryan laughs again, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. “Guess I can do that, can’t I?”

Graham turns to Yaz, blue eyes flickering in the fading afternoon light. 

"And you, missy," he accuses. "You look like you didn't sleep a wink last night." 

Yaz freezes, cup halfway to her mouth. She sets it down. 

"I've got news," she says, her mouth suddenly parched and oversweet. She swallows thickly. "I—I’m sorry I didn’t text you sooner. I think—I think I saw her… I think the Doctor is back." 

Graham and Ryan are silent, only sounds in the house the hum of the refrigerator and the singular tick of the clock. Suddenly, with a great burst of energy, Ryan pushes off from his chair, nearly pitching backwards. 

"I knew it!" he cheers, arms thrown wide. "She's come back for us!" 

"Something's wrong," Graham says, eyebrows drawing together. "What's wrong? What aren’t you telling us?" 

Yaz stares intently at her tea, noticing the rust-coloured crumbs gathered at edges of the cup and the way the cream creates a thin, swirling sheen of oil on top. 

"She doesn't remember me," Yaz whispers. "She's—I think she's human now, or pretending to be."

"Pardon?" Ryan asks, the front legs of his chair dropping back onto the ground with a loud _thud_. 

Yaz winces. 

“I were at the central library yesterday,” she explains. “There’s a librarian there—looks just like her, sounds just like her. It’s _her_. I’m positive.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asks, scooting forward so he can look up at her. His eyes are glittering with hope, reflecting light like stars. “Positive?”

“She doesn’t stop talking,” Yaz laughs. The sound is brittle. Tears drop from her eyes, splattering onto the napkin in front of her. 

“You _spoke_ to her?” Graham asks. 

Yaz nods. “Got a library card, too. Didn’t know what else to do—she offered and I couldn’t say no.”

“That’s ace,” Ryan says, rubbing his hands together. “Now you have a reason to go back. We’ve _got_ to go and see her!”

“She didn’t remember me,” Yaz says, chest aching. “Acted like I were a stranger.”

Graham stares into the middle distance. “D’you remember when we was all in Gloucester two year ago?” 

“With the Judoon?” Yaz says. She definitely remembers those rhino-police. They were terrifying.

“The platoon of Judoon?” Ryan reminds her. “The platoon of Judoon, near the moon, and the lagoon.”

Yaz shoots him a look. 

“That’s the adventure,” Graham says, choosing his words carefully. “Remember how with Ruth—Doc said something about how Ruth was cloaked. How she was a Time Lord and didn’t even know it.”

Yaz freezes. She sort of remembers that—the Doctor, edges worn like an old book, collapsing on the steps of TARDIS. She’d told them how Ruth was an unknown past self, an impossibility in a world of impossibilities. The Doctor was visibly shaken, unable to process a version of herself she couldn’t remember. 

She had been so upset, so defensive. They’d tried to comfort her and she lashed out. That mattered more at the time than an anecdote about a scared tour guide in Gloucester who ran away. 

Later, in private, Graham had remarked that the Doctor carries the weight of the entire universe on her shoulders; despite her best attempts to hide it from them with beaming smiles and fantastical adventures, they could still see the Atlassian burden edging in the periphery. 

And look where it had brought them. 

Not even a proper goodbye. 

“She was cloaked,” Yaz repeats. “I remember that now. There was a device or summat, yeah?”

"Octopus circle!" Ryan yells. "No, a cuttlefish… a chameleon arch!" 

After much prying, the Doctor had snapped and pointed up at the ceiling. A metal helmet was hung there, ignored; a sinister, old fashioned instrument out of place in the warm, softly glowing TARDIS. She'd told them about how it rewrites biology, hiding the essence of a Time Lord until it's safe to re-emerge. 

The look in her gold-green eyes was hollow, the lines on her face drawn with pain. It didn’t sound like a pleasant process. 

"Something must have happened," Ryan says, bringing Yaz back to the present. "Something bad between Gallifrey and now that she couldn’t tell us about. But at least we know she’s _alive_.”

“Yeah,” Yaz agrees. “That’s got to be it. We know her. She wouldn’t just stop being a Time Lord like that, not when… She wouldn’t just retire to _Sheffield_ to become a _librarian_. We need to help her." 

Graham sighs, dragging his fingers along his brow. 

"Be careful," he warns. "If she really is the Doctor, under that chameleon gadget, then it means she’s completely in the dark. If you enter with guns blazing, talking about aliens, she’ll think you’re mad." 

Yaz taps a biscuit against her saucer until it crumbles into sand. 

"I can't do nothing, Graham. It’s the _Doctor_." 

_I can’t leave her again._

“I know.” Graham is quick to clarify. "We want her back too, love. We’ve got to be strategic, is all I’m saying." 

“I’ll go with you to the library,” Ryan says. “So you don’t have to be alone next time. I want to see her for m’self, anyway.”

Yaz smiles up at him, hitching her chin. 

“Sounds good,” she says. It’s a needed reminder—she’s not alone in this.

* * *

It is an unseasonably cool day when Ryan and Yaz head to the library. The sky is faraway and pale, the air dry with an almost burnt quality to it. 

“I dunno if she’s even working,” Yaz confesses as they turn the corner, so close their arms keep bumping. 

“T’s’okay,” Ryan shrugs. “We get to scope this place out either way. Do some recon, like old times. You bring your card?”

“Yeah,” Yaz replies. She fingers the hard plastic in her jumper pocket. 

The lump in her throat won’t go away no matter how many times she swallows.

“Think she’ll remember you?” Ryan asks. “Did you like, make an impression?”

Yaz squints. “I don’t think so. I didn’t say very much.”

“Were you weird about it, though?” Ryan says. “I don’t want the Doctor to think I’m your friend if she thinks you’re a nutter.” 

Yaz rolls her fingers and the fluffy sleeve of her jumper into a fist. She reaches over to punch Ryan in the arm. 

“Oi,” she whines, offended. “Shut up. Honestly, you’re as bad as Sonya now. What’s she been tellin’ ya?”

He snickers and pulls her into a sideways hug. “Nothin’.” 

Yaz huffs and wiggles away, leading Ryan up the steps of the library. It looks the same as the other day: decorative stone floors, endless shelves of books, colourful posters advertising upcoming events, and a circular reference desk towards the entrance. Yaz’s heart plummets when she isn’t greeted by a familiar face, but then a messy-haired figure pops up from behind the counter. 

“Oh, hello!” June Smith says, grinning. “I thought I heard someone--oh! It’s Yasmin Khan! With a friend!”

Ryan laughs, going to lean against the desk. June beams up at him. 

“M’name’s Ryan,” he says. His smile is as easy as it always is, but there's a mournful look in his eyes. “Yaz says you helped her get a library card?”

“Sure did!” June chirps, sticking her hands in her trouser pockets and rocking on the balls of her feet. “D’ya want one too?”

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for a pen from the bucket on the counter. “My Nan was always on me to read more, but I hated it when I were in school. Reckon it's time I open my mind. You have audiobooks, right?”

“Do we?” June says, dropping the stack of papers she was sorting to gesture to a row of bookshelves. “And that doesn’t even cover what we have online. Plus, if there’s anything you want that isn’t available, come talk to me and we can borrow it from another library system."

“That’s ace,” Ryan grins. He attempts to twirl the pen in his hand and drops it. It clatters on the counter. 

“I’ll be over there,” Yaz says, pointing towards the adult fiction section. “Come find me when you’re done, Ryan.”

A brief look flickers over June’s face—disappointment, maybe?—before she turns her attention back to Ryan. 

Yaz flicks through titles distractedly, touching the colourful, plastic-covered spines. Organized by author, they’re all the same to her. She’s lost in the R section when a sudden hand on her shoulder makes her jump. 

“Hey!” she hisses, grabbing the hand in a vice hold. 

“It’s her,” Ryan says, his voice strained. “Yaz, it’s her. It’s the Doctor.”

“I know,” Yaz murmurs. The lump in her throat is back. 

“She doesn’t shut up,” Ryan laughs, wiping furiously at his red-rimmed eyes. “It’s her, Yaz. I’ve missed her so much.”

Yaz wraps her arms around Ryan’s shoulders, tears of her own staining the slick material of his jacket. It smells like him, like motor oil and woodsy cologne. She could pretend that this was all in her head, but now, with his confirmation—

The Doctor is back, but she’s all wrong. 

“She wants you to stop by the desk,” Ryan says thickly, pulling away. He coughs and adjusts his shirt. “She says she wants to make sure you have something good to read when you’re stuck on a boring shift.”

Yaz nods, wiping away her tears with the edge of her sleeve. 

* * *

“Stop it, Ryan,” Yaz warns. “I mean it. You’re gonna make me spill!”

Ryan chuckles, reaching over to grab a bottle of sauce. They’re sat at a chip shop near the library, decompressing. Yaz has a new book tucked into her bag—she hadn’t even paid attention to June’s explanation, just nodded along whilst June carefully explained something about space vampires and laser cats, each familiar and enthusiastic eyebrow raise and hand gesture a painful jolt to Yaz’s heart. 

“There’s a bottle of curry _right there_ ,” Yaz points out, clutching her drink to her chest protectively. 

“That one’s nearly done,” Ryan shrugs, tapping the sauce into his basket. “Yours is better.”

Yaz sets her drink carefully back on the counter. She picks up a fork and stabs a chip, swirling it in ketchup. 

“You agree?” she finally says, letting the fork drop back into her basket. “That’s the Doctor?”

She knows the answer, but she has to make sure one last time. 

“Deffo,” Ryan says mid-bite. He swallows and turns to look at her. The fluorescent lights wash him out, casting a yellow-grey glow against his skin. 

“What do we… do?” Yaz asks, squinting at her plate. She stabs at her fish, flaking it into small pieces. She’s too anxious to eat. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan answers. “If the Doctor were here—properly—she’d know.”

“She’d have half an idea,” Yaz laughs bitterly. “No, quarter of an idea.”

“The i in idea at the very least,” Ryan snorts, swirling the straw in his empty cup. 

They sit in silence for a moment, lost in contemplation. 

“We can’t leave her alone,” Yaz says with conviction. “She needs us.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. “We’re her family. She’s probably alone now, and she hates being alone.”

Yaz stabs her chips with renewed vigour, guilt gnawing at her stomach. They’d left her. _She’d_ left her. 

“Reckon we just befriend her?”

Ryan hums. “You better read that book quick.”

Yaz shudders. “Guess so.”

“Think she’ll wake up on her own?”

“Dunno,” Yaz replies. “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, yeah?”

Ryan nods, running his hand over his hair. “Yeah. For now. Let’s add this to the Thursday night agenda.”

Yaz twirls her fork through the potato-tomato mush on her plate. 

“Who knows?” Ryan shrugs. “It might be fun. She’s always been a laugh. We can have a game night or summat."

It takes Yaz less than two days to finish the book. She doesn’t like it, exactly, but if the Doctor recommended it, she’s resigned to her fate. She takes notes like she’s back studying for her literature GCSE, highlighter and all. 

She trudges up the stairs to the library, heart pounding in her throat again. After a year of foolish hope, the appearance of this strange facsimile of the Doctor is almost more painful than confirmation she’s really gone. She exists, but _Yaz’s_ Doctor is trapped behind glass, just out of reach, with a pale imitation in her place. June Smith is not the Doctor—she’s a stranger wearing her face, speaking with her voice, lighting up the room with her smile. There’s no malintent, no danger, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t _hurt_.

Yaz is going to get to the bottom of the mystery. She’s going to bring the Doctor back. 

June is behind the desk again, talking to a wild-eyed patron beside a towering stack of books. When she catches sight of Yaz her whole face brightens. She excuses herself from her conversation, bouncing over to the other side of the desk. 

“Hiya,” she breathes, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks when she smiles. “Didja like the book?”

“Yeah,” Yaz says, taking it out of her messenger bag and sliding it across the desk. June picks at the edge of the cover. It makes a plasticky _thwap_ sound. “Best part was the final battle, but I liked the kitchen scene too.”

June nods, scanning the book to check it back into the system. She’s wearing a shirt with matching rainbow cuffs and sleeves today. 

“Can I have another recommendation?” Yaz asks at the same time June asks: “D’ya want another recommendation?”

Yaz laughs, breathless. “Yes please.”

“A new book just came in,” June explains. “I mean, we’ve had copies, but I’m just adding new ones to the system since it’s been so popular, so I can let you jump the line if you promise not to tell my bosses.”

“Oh,” Yaz says. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“ _Pfft_ ,” June blows a piece of hair out of her face. “Don’t care about that, you’re m’friend now and it’s a _really_ good book. ‘Bout two agents on opposite sides of a time war who fall in love. _Highly_ recommend.”

 _A Time War_. Yaz’s heart skips a beat. _Does she know?_

“Yeah?” She fights to keep her voice neutral. “Sounds ace.”

“Wonderful,” June says, laying her palm against the desk. “I’ll be right back. Going to grab the book from the stockroom. Stay here? It’ll only take me a minute to add it to the system. Er, I mean, you can wander the stacks if you like—I’ll come find you.”

Yaz shrugs, leaning against the desk. “I’ll be here.”

“Brilliant,” June breathes, her familiar green-gold eyes sparkling. “You won’t regret this, _promise_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal el-Mohtar and Max Gladstone is an ACTUAL BOOK you can read! The paperback edition just came out! It's sci-fi and gay and I love it! 
> 
> Idk what I was going on with about space vampires and laser cats; if you want that you've got to write it yourself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hugest of thank yous to strangesmallbard and freefallvertigo for their assistance with this chapter! It wouldn't exist in its final form without them.
> 
> I've retconned the human!Doctor's name. It's June now. I like it better! So. Just. Yeah. Sorry if there's confusion.

The steps to the library are well-trod, the metal banisters worn gold by thousands of hands. Yaz counts the steps as she goes, her clunky boots slapping a heartbeat against the pavement. It’s a familiar route now, embedded in her muscles like fervent prayers. 

She’s got three books in her bag this time, having devoured a series in less than a week. She doesn’t particularly _like_ reading, nor the majority of the books June picks, but she needs to stay close, and hasn’t quite figured out a better way. 

“Yasmin Khan!” June stage-whispers, her smile pure syrup and sunshine. She's wearing a sky blue shirt with rainbows down the sleeves, her cropped hair a messy cloud from running her hands through it.

“Hello,” Yaz says, pressing against the desk. She tucks her hair behind her ears reflexively, although her hair is out of her face in a single plait today. 

No matter how many weeks go by, Yaz can’t seem to get over the initial shock at seeing the Doctor like this. After months of searching and hoping Yaz’s answer to the Doctor’s whereabouts is this quirky librarian in her hometown. She forgets each time how ordinary _,_ how _human_ June is. How could June compare to the marvel that was the Doctor? She’s not what Yaz wants. Yaz is aware her behaviour is off sometimes, standoffish and jumpy, but she can’t help it. The enormity of what Yaz has lost is crushing her. June doesn’t deserve that, but Yaz can’t stay away, either. 

Yaz fishes the novels out of her bag, bending sideways to reach them. She slides them over the long desk. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah!” June chirps, passing the books under the scanner. She’d shown Yaz the book drop a few weeks prior, but Yaz didn’t want to give up the opportunity to talk with her. June doesn’t seem inclined to jog her memory. “What did you think?” 

“First book were the best,” Yaz recalls, her fingers getting caught in the metal spiral of the notebook inside her bag. She tugs them out with a wince. She keeps track of all her thoughts on the readings so she'll know what to say to June. Old habits die hard—she wants her thoughts to be articulate. She wants the Doctor to think she’s worth talking to. “Second lost the plot along the way, but the third recovered nicely. Coulda done without the hero’s monologue at the end, but it weren’t that bad—remember how _annoying_ the last book was?” 

June’s eyes sparkle like the spiral galaxy she’d taken Yaz to so many months ago, whorls of green and gold and livid grey. 

“What, don’t you love 15 pages of ardent soliloquy in 19th century bildungsroman?” she says, fine lines crinkling. “Sorry, again, about that—I could’ve sworn that book was on a reading list, but it turns out it was on an _anti_ -reading list..”

“S’not like I had anything better to do than tear my hair out on a Saturday night, but it definitely made me doubt your taste,” Yaz plays with the end of a plait. Her ends are becoming ragged like frayed twine—she needs a trim. Been long enough. “Don’t know if it’ll ever recover, honest. What’s next?”

“I’ve two books for you to try,” June says, pulling two plastic-wrapped hardcovers from under the counter. “We just got ‘em, so your opinion is of great importance to our future library patrons. Do you think you can handle the responsibility, Officer Khan?” 

The playful twinkle in her eye betrays the seriousness of her voice. June hums as she begins typing a series of numbers on the keyboard in front of her, the old tiles clacking loudly. She doesn’t need to ask for Yaz’s card anymore—she’s memorized her information.

Yaz grabs a book and opens it to the inside flap so she can read the description. It’s got something to do with meteorites and Los Angeles and doesn’t seem half-bad. 

“Yaz,” June interrupts, reaching forward to grasp Yaz’s hands. They’re livewire electric, crackling with energy that threatens to hurt, but Yaz can’t pull away. 

“Mmm-mmm?” Yaz’s voice jumps an octave, bound tight like a guitar string. 

“You’ve been comin’ here for a while,” June begins. She squeezes her fingers. “I were wondering—”

Yaz’s heart skips a beat. 

She searches June’s pink-flushed face for a sign that she’s realized something, even the most minute indication Yaz can cling to, a fragment of hope that the Doctor— _the Doctor’s not_ here _, Yaz._

“Will you come to dinner with me?” June asks, turning Yaz’s hands over she can rub her thumbs over the prominent ridges of Yaz’s knuckles. They’re soft. 

Dinner? They’ve never hung out outside of work. Why the change in routine? Yaz’s confusion must be evident, because June begins to stress-ramble: 

“I really like spending time with you, and there’s a new bread restaurant that’s just opened, and my bosses are gettin’ cross that my inventory’s backed up, and—oh, no, that’s not a happy face. Did I misjudge this? I’m not good socially. Tad awkward, me, always assuming things. I just reckoned, since you come in so often, you might have been—is it that you're not into—? Just me? No, that's worse—no, it’s no matter, no matter t’all, Yaz. Brilliant Yaz. Didn’t mean to put you on the spot, I’m real sorry, I am—”

Yaz’s face must be glowing. She’s going to melt through the floor. Her heart is pounding, roaring in her ears, only instead of the Cybermen or the Kasaavin it’s the Doctor—June—that’s got her shock-still. 

It was never a fleeting possibility. Not even a consideration. Yaz snaps her hands away and tries not to miss the contact. 

The Doctor was untouchable, a creature strange and fantastic. An enigma. She’d throw herself into lakes; in front of conscious universes; over sonic mines—she’d foolishly, bravely deploy a Death Particle to make sure Yaz and the others got back to Earth safely. She could identify location (and century, she insisted) by soil and would try any food once, no matter how nasty. Her friendship was instant and intense like fireworks, transcending species and circumstance. 

The Doctor cared about others with a breathtaking fierceness that left her own safety an afterthought. She was brave and funny and _brilliant_. The Doctor was magnificent like the universe she travelled through, like the universe she was showing Yaz before their time got cut unfairly short. The Doctor loved fiercely and seemed terrified of being loved in return. She could be as cruel with her enemies as she was kind to her friends.

The Doctor didn’t know how to be quiet, how to handle sadness or grief, to the point she seemed angry if they lingered too long in stillness. The Doctor at rest was a planet unmoored, on the verge of escaping its rotation and crashing, flaming, into everything around it. 

As much as they tried—as much as Yaz _tried_ —the Doctor had so many _damned walls_ it was impossible to truly know her. Each answer gave them hundreds more: a kaleidoscope of fractured pain and beauty throwing new, evershifting information at the walls. Knowing the Doctor intimately was something that could only happen piecemeal; otherwise, it was like an unwavering stare into a sun. 

Breathtaking, but foolish. 

The Doctor wasn’t human. The intensity of her anger, the scope of her hurt, the buoyancy of her joy and the shape of her love were all too great to be human. 

But June Smith is a human.

And she wants to go on a date.

With _Yaz_. 

There are so many things Yaz could say, wants to say, doesn’t know how to say. 

What she settles on is: 

“Gluten sensitive. Can’t have bread.”

The furrow between June’s eyebrows eases, the easy smile reappearing like daybreak. 

“Gluten sensitive! I can work with that. There’s a soup restaurant I’ve been wanting to try near The Crucible. I’ll check and make sure you can eat there. If you want to…?”

Is it normal to be this sweaty when you’re getting asked out? 

These are abnormal circumstances. 

She needs to call Ryan. 

_Immediately_. 

“Okay,” Yaz says. She forces a smile. “Yeah! Sounds ace.” 

“Yeah?” June’s smile stretches across her face, broad and delighted. Her nose crunches. Something inside Yaz twists. “ _Brilliant_. Oh, Yasmin Khan. I’m positively jammy. You’ve made my day—my week, maybe, unless we go out this week, because, well. That’s bound to be more exciting, no?” 

Doctor or not, her energy is contagious. Yaz grins, genuinely this time. 

“Definitely.”

“Can I have your number?” June asks, leaning across the desk. She walks her long fingers towards Yaz, nimble like spiders’ legs. “I’ll leave you a message so we can plan. Synchronize our watches and all that. Be in the same place and time.”

 _Oh_ , does that comment sting. Yaz swallows around a lump that dissolves like acid. 

Yaz fishes her phone from her pocket and unlocks it. She slides it to June so she can add herself. The light of the computer to her left lends her an ethereal quality, casting a pink shine to her hair and a magenta glow to her skin. 

When a piece of rose-tinted hair slips in front of her face, Yaz has to fight the urge to tuck it back behind her ear. 

The impulse for tenderness is unexpected. 

That’s not a facet of their relationship. 

Yaz clenches her fist by her side, digging her sharp nails into her palm. 

June’s still got her earrings. The chain glints, curling out under her earlobe like a silver thread. 

After a few vigorous taps, June gives Yaz’s phone back. When their hands touch, June twists their fingers together again, her hazel eyes soft and kind. Yaz is suddenly breathless. 

“I’m proper chuffed you said yes,” June informs her. “I’ll WhatsApp you later tonight?” 

“Sounds good,” Yaz breathes. She gives June’s fingers a squeeze, revelling in the electricity.

“I’ve got to get a shift on.” June looks genuinely apologetic, fidgeting with the cuff of her shirt. “Been late for storytime twice now, unless you’re inclined to hear _James and the Giant Peach_? You can totally attend. The primary schoolers are an intimidating bunch at first, but they’ll settle down… got to assert dominance, but once you show ‘em who’s boss, they’re an easygoing bunch, love a good story.”

Yaz snorts. “I’ll pass, but thank you for the invite.”

Despite the laugh lines, June’s smile looks foreign. Yaz hadn’t seen many, those last few months. 

“I’m excited to spend time with you,” June admits. “Outside work. I think you’re someone special, Yaz.”

The intensity of June’s gaze is a vice grip. Yaz is used to the intensity, but not—not directed at her, not like this. Or maybe she’d forgotten, in all those torn calendar pages. 

“Yeah,” Yaz squeaks, pulse rocketing so hard she hears a rush like an ocean wave in her ears. Her whole face burns. Is she embarrassed? Pleased? “Yeah, you—you too.”

She’s going to faint. 

“I’ll leave you to storytime, then. Uh, bye.”

Yaz turns on her heel and runs out the library, heart surging out of her chest. She’s calling Ryan before she can think. 

“Pick up pick up pick up!” she chants, pressing the phone against her ear. 

* * *

The overhead lights in Graham’s dining room are nearly turned off, casting a sweet orange glow over the formally set dinner table. The sky outside is a deep indigo blue with clouds so thick there are no stars, but inside is cosy and familiar, the heat from the kitchen warming Yaz to her bones. Thursday tea-and-meeting involves a whole Sunday roast this week. Graham is learning to cook, much to Ryan’s delight. 

Yaz is still jittery from her earlier encounter with June, her muscles about to jump out of her skin. She stabs a piece of roast beef viciously, twirling it in her mash. 

“Oi there,” Graham chides, reaching over the table to top off her water with a frog-shaped jug he had picked up at a little roadside shop in the Netherlands. “What’d the roast ever do to you?” 

“Leave her alone,” Ryan says, his mouth full of potato and cauliflower. “She’s had a big day.”

“Oh?” Graham turns to Yaz, “What hap—”

“Where are we on the Paris trip?” Yaz asks Ryan, instead, desperate to move the conversation away from her personal life. She’s not ready to talk, not yet.

Ryan had been at work when Yaz called, the only response he'd had time for incredulous laughter. She’d been too delicate to bring it up whilst they waited to eat, raw like an exposed nerve. 

Ryan shifts uncomfortably in his chair, pulling his bottom lip between his fingers. 

“About that,” he says. “Is it a good idea to go? With _her_ back and all?”

Yaz grits her teeth. “She don’t need watching, Ryan. We deserve a holiday.”

 _Yaz_ deserves a holiday. Ryan’s too emotional to see June, and Graham’s too eager to try and force her memories through exposure. It’s been up to Yaz and Yaz alone to visit her, to befriend her, to make sure she’s all right. 

Yaz is trying not to resent it. 

She knows the boys care, even if they won’t be there. 

“I’m with Yaz on this,” Graham sighs, steepling his knife and fork on his plate so he can lean back and stretch. “We’ve been plannin’ this for ages.”

“Yeah…” Ryan mumbles, prodding his roast. 

“What do you have in store for us?” Yaz turns to Graham as Ryan trails off, cradling her chin on her hand.

Graham fumbles for his phone and begins searching through his email.

“Oi, Grandad! Thought we said no phone at the table,” Ryan sulks, scandalized. 

Graham shoots him a look. “How’m I supposed to remember what tours I want us to go on if I can’t look ‘em up?”

Ryan’s cheeky laugh pops his dimples. 

“All right,” Graham begins, clearing his throat and holding his phone at arm’s reach. “I’m thinking: first day, Eiffel Tower. I want one of ‘em pictures where I pretend it’s really small.”

“Really?” Ryan interjects. “Those are so cheesy.”

“Second day,” Graham continues, unabated, “tour of the Louvre, since we missed the Mona Lisa in Madrid.”

Maybe the four years of French she took in secondary will come in handy. She should download an app for a refresher.

The TARDIS’s universal translator was so flippin’ _useful_. 

“You okay, Yaz?” Graham asks, jerking her from her thoughts. “You’ve been quiet tonight, love. And you’ve hardly touched your dinner. I know I’m not the greatest cook, but I reckon it came out _edible_ at the very least.”

“Hmm?” Yaz lifts her head. “Oh, no, Graham. Food’s wonderful. I appreciate this, I do.”

“Something’s bothering you, then,” Graham says, scooting his chair so he can turn his full attention to her. It screeches when he moves and the shrill sound rings in her ears like a distress signal. “What did Ryan mean, earlier? Is it your folks again? Work? Or—or is it…?”

“Yeah,” Yaz swallows around a lump. “It’s her. The Doctor. June.”

Yaz hates saying her name. Her old one, her new one. Feels wrong on her tongue, foreign in her mouth, like a cancer or a bitter curse. 

“Did something happen?” Graham’s voice hitches. “Is she okay? Is anyone after her?”

“Yes! She’s safe. She, uh, she asked me out today,” Yaz admits. She fights to keep her voice measured—she’s not going to let on how affected she is in front of her friends. “On a date.”

It takes Graham an excruciating moment to process this information. 

“Oh,” he says. He speaks like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield. “Well, that’s nice, innit? You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

“A _date_ , Graham,” Yaz says, fighting to keep the anxious whine from her voice. “I’m going on a _date_. With the _Doctor._ ” 

“She’s not the Doctor, though,” Ryan reminds her. His voice is resolute; he’s convincing himself as much as her. “You’ve said as such.”

“I know,” Yaz drops her head in her hands and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. “I—I just wish...”

A warm, solid hand is laid on her shoulder, a grounding wire to the frantic thunderstorm in her head. 

“Yaz,” Graham murmurs, tilting his head until Yaz looks at him. His bright blue eyes search hers, full of infinite kindness and patience. “Don’t think too much about this. I know you are—I can hear your thoughts comin’ a mile a minute, love. Remember how we can’t pretend to understand how those big, mystery brains of the Doc’s work. When have we ever understood a plan of hers, eh? We’d be running blind until the building was nearly falling ‘round our heads and giant bugs were shooting lasers at our backs. That’s how she is, forming plans as they happen and only telling us our parts when we need to know ‘em. There’s something we’re not seeing, I’m sure of it, but right now—she’s our friend and she’s alone. You’re what she knows, way down deep, in those blasted hearts of hers. You can be there for her.”

Yaz worries her bottom lip in between her teeth, letting Graham’s words settle between them like a fermata. Which hurts more: the Doctor is just lonely and wants to fill space, or that the Doctor wants to date _her_? 

“Why—” Yaz gasps, her closed throat making a horrid gulping sound. “Why, though?”

"’Cos she's got good taste," Ryan shrugs. "You're proper likable, Yaz." 

Yaz swipes at sudden tears, curling her sleeves around her fingers. 

"Yeah," Graham echoes, playing with a loose thread on the tablecloth. "This June, or even the Doctor, or _whoever_ , they'd be pretty lucky to date our Yaz." 

Yaz hides her face in her hands again. Is it too much to ask for a rapid teleport to anywhere besides this dining room? She'll take an underwater lab, a deep-space stasis chamber, a moon colony, 1803, the 30th century—somewhere that's _not here_. 

"Shut up," she mumbles. "You're embarrassing me." 

"That's family," Ryan shrugs, popping a whole roasted Brussels sprout into his mouth. 

Yaz stews, fighting tears, before she asks the question that's really be gnawing at her:

“Do you think she felt this way about me before?”

As if they’d only just parted, like two connected magnets pried from one another, Yaz’s hand aches with the memory of the Doctor’s soft, cool hand in hers. That hand pulled her towards adventures she couldn’t dream of and away from dangers that still haunt her nightmares, and Yaz had trusted her every second they were touching, because she was the Doctor, and the Doctor would keep her safe. 

Was it possible excitement could transfer through a hand on her arm, the electricity crackling through leather and cotton? Yaz had always found the Doctor’s exuberance at a new discovery, a new impossible possibility infectious, and when those big hazel eyes turned to her it was like there was no one else in the universe. 

She’d told her once there’d be no universe without her, her conviction absolute. It was a statement of fact, not opinion. Yaz was part of the Doctor’s world—a treasured one. There had been repeated promises, ultimately fulfilled, to keep her safe, to keep her alive, and to get her back home safely. 

The Doctor had _trusted_ her, too. Let her go explore on her own when a situation didn’t sit right, when her officer’s instincts told her something was off and she needed to investigate. The Doctor valued her opinion and was confident in her abilities, and wasn’t that the most wondrous thing? Yaz could climb the stars, knowing the Doctor believed in her.

 _You were always her favourite_ , Ryan had said once, to explain why she took her loss the hardest. But he was reading too much into it, finding special treatment where there was none. The Doctor loved them all the same. Right? 

“Don’t let your mind wander there,” Graham advises, jolting Yaz back to reality. “Be present now that we got the Doctor back. Ain’t that brilliant? Each day is a gift from here on out. Where’s she taking you, love?” 

“A soup restaurant,” Ryan blurts out. “‘Cos nothing says a hot date like _soup._ ”

Graham shakes his head fondly and chuckles. He reaches out to grab a paper napkin and hands it to Yaz.

“Isn’t it good to know she’s still a nutter?” Yaz hiccups, taking the napkin and dabbing at her eyes. She must look a mess. 

“You’ll call and tell us how it goes, yeah?” Ryan asks, scooting forward in his chair. “I wanna know.”

“Yeah,” Yaz says, crumpling the napkin and shoving it in her pocket. “‘Course.”

Yaz’s phone vibrates in her other pocket, several times in rapid succession. She pulls it out and sees a series of WhatsApp voice messages from June. She blinks and another appears. Then another. And another.

_Oh no._

“I should get going,” Yaz explains, a sudden lump in her throat. She hadn’t deleted the Doctor’s number, couldn’t bear to listen to or delete her messages, and now— 

Yaz pushes up from the table, her chair catching on a warp in the floorboard and nearly trapping her. “She wants to coordinate when we’re going out—I’d better message her back quickly, ‘fore she says something embarrassing, or gives up and calls.”

“Bloody hell,” Ryan groans. “Does she send thirty messages in a row, too?”

“Looks like it,” Yaz sighs. _Of course she does_. 

“Good luck, mate,” Ryan says, stabbing a piece of asparagus off of Yaz’s plate and flicking it onto his own. “Better you than me.”

“Ryan, stop that!” Graham chides, swatting his hand away from the plate. Graham takes the plate into the kitchen and begins rummaging through a cabinet for a container. “I’m sending her off with that! I don’t know what they have at the station, but it isn’t enough—you’re skin and bones, Yaz.” 

“Thanks, _Nani_ ,” Yaz teases, going to stand beside him. She presses her hips against the counter and watches as he fusses, portioning her dinner into a container with separate compartments for each food group. 

It fills her heart, to be taken care of like this. She’s lucky to have him and Ryan in her life. 

Food in hand, Yaz goes to the front door. Ryan has her coat ready, the wayward asparagus sticking out of his mouth like a stalk of hay. He helps her shrug it on.

“Tell Hakim I looked into the earthworm thing,” he says as he smothers Yaz in a hug, asparagus mercifully in his mouth. He smells like spiced cologne and roasted garlic. “My mates on reddit don’t think it’s pesticides causing them to surface like that, but we won’t know ‘til the lab results on the soil come back.”

“Can’t you _text him_?” Yaz asks, her voice muffled by his shirt. She pulls back and reaches for her bag behind him. “He likes when you text him.”

“Nah,” Ryan replies with a shrug. “He texts like a dad. Barely comprehensible. S’like texting in code, but there’s no code, he’s just a dork who uses emojis inappropriately. He don’t believe me that the upside-down smile isn’t the regular one and it messes with my head.”

“You’re the worst,” Yaz informs him. She punches him lightly in the shoulder. “G’night.”

He grins broadly and opens the door for her, waving as she jogs down the steps of their duplex. 

* * *

Ryan is right. There’s no romance on a date to a soup restaurant, no matter how hard the place is trying. They’re sat outside on a stone patio, fairy lights strung up around them, with soft jazz music curling from the speakers. There are other people dining at the restaurant—friends, families, other couples—but they’re far enough away that their chatter fades into the background. 

Maybe a date to a soup restaurant would be more romantic without June’s mile-a-minute lecture on Sheffield architecture and local plant life, but Yaz doubts it—it’s impossible to eat a meal out of a bowl without looking like a fool. 

At least June is having a blast with her Vietnamese noodle soup, stirring in bright vegetables, adding condiments and slurping noodles to her singular heart's content. Yaz is grateful she got the clear soup instead of the rustic tomato she’d been considering—she’d be a stain hazard, gesturing emphatically with her utensils. 

“So my library was actually built out of Portland stone,” June says. She lifts a sliver of beef to her mouth and lets it fall back into the soup with a splash. “Prized stone from south of England, that is. Were used to build Buckingham Palace and St. Paul’s, and it were exported all the way to New York to build the U.N. Headquarters!”

“Yeah?” Yaz says, sorting through her soup for another piece of roasted apple. It’s something different, full of root vegetables, rice and warm spices, but she’s not sure if she likes it yet. 

“Yeah!” June stirs a miniscule spoon through a ramekin of chili sauce. She flings a small drop into her soup. “What’s your opinion on Art Deco, Yaz?”

Yaz chews a chunk of curried sweet potato. “Can’t say I know much.”

She had met William Van Alen, chief architect of the Chrysler Building, on a wayward trip to Manhattan in 1928 to try a proper egg cream. They had ended up running through the sewers to chase down a quartet of rogue Chelonians as well, and it was somehow not their most disgusting sewer-related adventure. 

“Oh,” June says. Her shoulders hunch and she stares at her soup, swirling rice noodles around a chopstick as though she’s trying to brew a potion. “Have I been talking a lot? I do that sometimes—get carried away, one subject to the next, forget to let the conversation flow naturally. Hope I haven’t been boring you. Don’t want to bore you—that’d be a terrible date, and I don’t want to be a terrible date.”

“You’re fine,” Yaz says too quickly. “I like listening to you talk. Have—had—a friend who were much the same.”

June tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, giving Yaz a shy, scrunched smile. Yaz can’t help but smile back, chest aching. 

Who knew she’d miss the chatter? 

June adds a pointed basil leaf to her soup and watches it float like a raft. 

“Have you had time to look at the new books?” she asks. “I know it’s only been a couple of days.” 

“Halfway through the first one,” Yaz replies. She puts another piece of sweet potato in her mouth and tries not to spit it out when it’s actually a chunk of stewed carrot. “Good so far. Compelling relationship between the protagonists—I like when people aren’t supposed to get along but they’re forced too ‘cos of circumstances.”

June is watching her, hazel eyes twinkling in the late afternoon light. The sky will be setting soon, setting June aglow in shades of periwinkle and apricot-orange. 

In two years, Yaz had never noticed how pretty she is. Had she missed it, or had June awoken something inside her? Is it just that she’s finally still enough to study, her face no longer torn up by grief, that Yaz notices the cute, pink quirk of her lips when she smiles. She belly laughs now, unselfconscious and exuberant, the intensity of the sound catching them both off guard. 

What would it feel like, to reverently trace the curve of her cheek, to smooth the high arch of her eyebrow, or to tuck a silky piece of hair behind her ear? 

It’s difficult to breathe around her, but she was always breathtaking like that. 

June seems to sense the shift in Yaz’s thoughts, scooting closer so she can press her knees against the outside of her thigh. With a gulp, Yaz sets her spoon down to rest against the side of her bowl.

“Hmm?” June murmurs. She braces her elbow against the table and rests her chin in her hand. She’s so close Yaz can see the tiny moles dotting her jaw like a constellation. “Have I told you how clever I think you are, Yaz? I think you’re proper clever. I like that you come by wantin’ to talk about literature. No one else does—no one else comes by to see me.”

Yaz shudders and pulls away, the intensity of June’s affection too much. 

Does Yaz even deserve the compliment? She forged a friendship with June to keep an eye on the Doctor. She doesn’t deserve the adoration. Guilt gnaws at her stomach like flame incinerating a piece of paper, quick and destructive. 

“Hey,” Yaz swallows heavily, desperate to move the conversation in another direction. “We’ve been going at this a while but I never asked—do you live around here?” 

She goes to take a spoonful and decides better of it. 

“Sort of,” June replies. If she’s put off by Yaz’s rejection she doesn’t show it. “I’ve a little ground-floor flat with an overgrown garden, about a twenty minute bike ride from the library. I love it. Feels like I’ve been there forever.”

“Sounds nice,” Yaz hums. So the Doctor did get her flat. _Wonder if her couch is purple_...

“You?” June asks. She presses her spoon against her noodles to fill it with broth and takes a noisy sip. 

“Live with my family,” Yaz shrugs. “Were savin’ for a place of my own, but with all the travel I do on an officer’s salary, just can’t afford it right now…” 

“I didn’t know you travelled,” June says. Her eyes grow wide. “Tell me about it?” 

A jolt of electricity cuts through Yaz’s heart. 

“A couple of mates and I travel when we can,” she explains. “See the sights. Meet people. Go to museums. Nothing much.” 

“I’ve never left Yorkshire,” June sighs. She drops her spoon in her bowl and watches it get engulfed by her soup like a sinking ship. When she looks back at Yaz, her eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. “What’s it like out there, Yaz?” 

“Incredible,” Yaz whispers. It’s wrong, for her to describe the world to the Doctor like this, but there’s a hunger to the way June is looking at her that urges Yaz to continue. “Indescribable, really. You never know what to expect, but that’s my favourite part. You’re part of something bigger than yourself when you travel—s’like you can touch the whole universe.”

A single tear rolls down June’s flushed cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice. The naked anguish on June’s face is unfamiliar—June’s always been chipper, and the Doctor never let on to how truly distraught she was, even though Yaz knew she was hurting. 

“Where have you been?” she asks. She inches closer to Yaz, curling her fingers around the warm crook of Yaz’s elbow. June’s fingers are cold, even through the leather. 

“Spain most recently,” Yaz says. “Before that it was a cruise of the Mediterranean and a few places in Central America. We’ve also been to Hong Kong and South Africa. Saw some of my family in Punjab once and visited a fjord in Norway. We do loads of day trips ‘round Britain too, when the museums have special exhibitions. And we’ve an upcoming trip to France in progress.” 

“Whoa,” June breathes. She slides closer to press her knees into Yaz’s thigh again and shifts so that their shoulders are touching. Yaz’s heart lurches and begins beating double-time. “That’s _brilliant_.”

“Yeah,” Yaz squeaks. “I’m real lucky.”

“How's Ryan?” June asks. She slides her hand down Yaz’s arm to pull it towards her, cradling it between her palms. “He hasn’t been by.”

The Doctor wasn’t touchy. Why is June _touchy_? 

“Good.” Yaz clenches her fist, only to have it gently pried open by June’s confident, deft fingers. “He’s working a lot. Workin’ hard. We're proper proud, me and his grandad.”

“He’s got a grandad?” June’s fingers hover, thumbs curved around the heel of Yaz’s palm. 

“Yeah. His name’s Graham,” Yaz says. Maybe it’ll jog her memory? June hesitates, her head tilted while she listens. “His step-grandad, actually, but we all forget. It’s funny to remember when Ryan hated him. After Ryan’s nan passed and we started traveling, they got real close. We all did. He’s my grandad too, he is.”

“Oh,” June says. Her fingers flex, holding onto Yaz’s hand like a lifeline. “I didn’t realize you’d lost someone. I’m sorry to hear that, Yaz. It’s so hard, losin’ loved ones.”

“Y-yeah,” Yaz breathes. She closes her eyes and inhales, taking in the smells of the fresh food and cigarette smoke and the herby scent of June’s conditioner. “She were incredible, Ryan’s nan. We keep her memory alive, traveling together.”

What had she expected, saying yes to a date? It hurts, unbearably so. 

Yaz indulges in the comfort of June’s nearness, her smell and her warmth, relaxing into her touch with a soft sigh. _Be present now that we got the Doctor back. Each day is a gift._ It’s astonishingly selfish to want this, but… she’s missed her so much, and June is _here_. 

Yaz unfurls her hand like a moonflower, opening up to June’s curious fingers. June traces her heart line with a reverent fingertip, worshiping the creases of her palm. 

“I’m not ready to stop spending time with you,” June murmurs, still stroking Yaz’s hand. “Do you want dessert? Can we go on a walk? There’s a park nearby—I go there sometimes. It’s really nice. Can I show you? I’d like to show you.”

June, too, can only be quiet and still for so long. 

“Sure,” Yaz laughs. She knocks their shoulders together. “I’d fancy a walk.”

“ _Brilliant_ ,” June breathes. She reluctantly lets go of Yaz’s hand to flag down the waiter. She glances over the cheque and then digs through her pockets, pulling out two shiny rocks, a packet of mustard, a royal blue yo-yo, a plastic bag with three custard creams, a Swiss Army Knife and a small metal dog before finding her wallet. 

“Got a lot of friends to keep you company?” Yaz fights to keep her voice light despite the lump in her throat.

“Hate empty pockets,” June replies, sorting out the change. She unceremoniously shoves everything back inside her coat, standing from the table with an excited hop. 

“Ready?” June asks, cheeks and nose pink with excitement. She holds her hand out for Yaz to take. Yaz stands and allows herself to be pulled impatiently through the streets. 

It’s a familiar feeling.

“We have to hurry,” June explains. “It’s true dusk now, and I get a bit jumbled trying to navigate at night.”

“S’all good,” Yaz replies, jogging to keep up with June’s long strides. 

The entrance to the park is all open concrete and manicured lawns, but June pays that no mind, tugging Yaz further into the complex. Tucked behind a series of columns and over a low wall is a small forest, with a smattering of trees and hanging vines. Even though they’re still in the city, it’s quiet out here—the air is crisp and sweet. June leads her far enough into the forest that the large, looming buildings of the city all but disappear. 

There’s a single oak tree that June walks up to. She drops Yaz’s hand to press against it, palm flat against the rough bark, head bowed as she murmurs to it. She used to stand like that in front of the TARDIS, too, sometimes. Must be muscle memory. 

June lifts her head and gestures for Yaz to sit with her on a wide, knee-high branch. 

“I come here to think sometimes,” June admits once they’ve both settled in, knees pressed against each other. “When the world gets to be a bit much.”

“Thank you for showing me,” Yaz says. She draws her knees up to her chest. June is cast in shadow, the curves of her face drenched in sudden sadness. 

“I don’t like to be alone,” June whispers, picking at a spare piece of fuzz on her pants. “I think I’ve been alone for a long time.”

“Are you alone now?” Yaz asks. Something flickers over June’s face, too quick for Yaz to read. 

“No,” June says. “You’re here.”

“When I’m not with you,” Yaz inquires, hoping she’s not pressing on a bruise. It’s vital she gather this intel—if there’s someone from their past lingering around, she needs to know immediately. “Who do you have, June?”

A storm cloud rolls over June’s face now, dark and angry. There’s lightning in her eyes, ready to strike, before it dissipates as suddenly as it appeared, leaving her with a glazed-over expression. 

“No one,” she snaps. “But I must’ve at some point. How can I not have a family? Everyone’s got a family. Friends. I don’t seem to. Wish I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Yaz says, the apology meagre and stale on her tongue. She shouldn’t have pushed. 

When June turns to look at her, she’s near tears, her shoulders hunched and her mouth a thin, trembling line. 

“I feel like I’m mourning,” June admits. Her voice breaks like a wave against the shore, churning up froth and sand. “All the time.”

She swipes angrily at tears, painting red across her nose and cheeks. “It’s like my cells are aching from a sorrow that isn’t mine, Yaz. I’m supposed to be happy, but there’s a space in my chest that feels like it were hollowed out. Sometimes I feel like—I dunno. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Yaz breathes. “It’s not stupid, Doc—June.”

“I feel like shadows are going to eat me alive,” June confesses. “Like there’s something sinister in mirrors, or like there’s someone coming up behind me when my back is turned. My body tells me to run, tells me I’m not safe. But I’m safe. Nothing bad has happened to me, nothing that I can remember.”

Unable to bear the sight of her friend’s distraught face, Yaz pulls June into a hug, tucking her head under her chin. She buries her nose in June’s hair and inhales: rosemary and mint, musty old books, a windy summer evening, and somehow, still, faintly, motor oil. _Fuck_. If she keeps June against her neck, she won’t be able to see her tears. 

It’s the Doctor. June is the Doctor. Yaz knows this now. The woman trembling in her arms is her beloved friend, hidden from herself by the chameleon arch. 

Yaz is going to help her get out, once she figures out how. 

“I don’t have memories,” June admits in a hot whisper against Yaz’s neck. “Nothing about my parents, my childhood. Who doesn’t have a favourite book they read when they were little? I’ve read so many books, ‘cos I love to read, except I can’t remember _reading_ them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie but I know every one. It’s like I only started existing a few months ago and I’m just pretending to be a real person.”

What is there to say? She’s telling the truth, but Yaz can’t let her know that. All she can do is hold her, squeeze her gently until June pulls away, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Look at me,” June gasps, pulling away from Yaz and scrubbing her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “Tellin’ you all my secrets. That’s embarrassing for a first date, innit? Now you’re not gonna want to talk to me. I’m normal, Yaz. Promise. I’m not just some nutter—have I told you about the squirrel soap outside my window? Every morning, when I drink my tea, I swear, there’s a whole drama. Who needs telly when Amos can’t balance on the fence, Prudence and Patience keep fighting over Pestilence, and Ol’ John has forgotten where he’s buried his nuts?”

“I don’t think you’re weird,” Yaz murmurs, interrupting June’s stress-ramble by tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

June sniffs and looks at her, a shy smile playing across her lips. 

“Yasmin Khan,” June whispers, her voice full of open wonder. “Brilliant Yaz, brave Yaz, kind Yaz. You’re a good friend. It makes me really happy you said yes tonight.”

Yaz’s pulse roars in her ears. Bathed in moonlight, June’s features are soft and celestial. Her eyes are so wide Yaz can see the stars and so full of adoration they steal the oxygen from her lungs. 

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” June blurts out, nervous energy palpable between them. “You look really pretty with your hair down and I’ve wanted to kiss you all night and if I don’t ask now I’m gonna lose my nerve.”

June’s hand shakes as she reaches out to cup Yaz’s face, her cool fingers slotting behind her ear and her thumb brushing over her overheated cheek. 

“I’d really like to kiss you,” June whispers. “If that’s okay.”

“Please,” Yaz sighs, her voice so high it’s almost a whine. She wants this too much—she’s desperate for June’s touch and aching for her affection. She’s allowed, isn’t she?

June is vibrating with needs and nerves and excitement, asking to kiss her—she’s been wanting to kiss her all night. 

June isn’t the Doctor, she isn’t, she isn’t. 

Yaz wants to kiss her back. She’s always been honest with herself. She _wants_ this. 

They’ve been touching all evening and Yaz is on fire. She’s about to ignite. 

Yaz brings her hand up to press against June’s, leaning into her touch. 

June’s crinkled smile is radiant, lighting up the forest. 

She brings up her other hand to cup Yaz’s face and brings their lips together, grinning into their first kiss. It’s exuberant and searing, with a little too much teeth, and so, so much adoration. 

Yaz’s hands flutter and come to rest against June’s narrow waist, tugging her closer, suddenly hungry for a touch she didn’t know she’d been craving. 

It’s a lethal contradiction. June is and isn’t the Doctor. Can Yaz have feelings for one without the other? 

When June gently tilts her head, lips slick and greedy, pulling her closer for _more_ , Yaz can’t help but smile too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: glitteribbur  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> freefallvertigo and strangesmallbard are my betas, they're incredible, go read their work! 
> 
> tw: mentions of racism and islamophobia 
> 
> it's difficult to write about a culture and religion that isn't my own. i'm sorry, in advance, for what doesn't ring true, and what i've gotten wrong. hope it's not too jarring. i wanted to explore yaz as a character outside of just her role as the doctor's companion and how she helps her complete *her* narrative arc.

The ride up the lift is endless. Despite her run, Yaz's chest still burns with a powerlessness and indignation that threatens to incinerate her like a spark to kindling. 

She just needs a scalding shower and to lose herself in a show and she’ll be set. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. It’s not like it doesn’t happen somewhat frequently. It’s not like it’s something _new_. Still doesn’t mean it doesn’t catch her off guard, like the floor has suddenly been snatched out from under her. 

And it’s not like Sergeant Sunder doesn’t get it, because he does. He’d hissed sympathetically and brought her a weak, bitter coffee from the new machine when she’d told him. He gets called a _paki_ , too, after all. At least people respect the uniform. She doesn’t need to worry like she does when she’s off duty. 

“Yaz!” her dad calls when she unlocks the door. She deflates. _So much for slipping by unnoticed._ “Let us know when you’re running late after your shift! I thought you’d be back by 4?”

“Went for a run,” Yaz mumbles, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes. With a sigh, she toes them in line next to the rest of her family’s shoes, all arranged in neat rows on the shoe rack. 

“Did you eat?” her mum says, coming around the table to press a dry kiss to her cheek. “We’ve ordered Chinese. Sonya says she will be home in twenty minutes, so we can expect her in forty. She's agreed to watch a film with us tonight. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

Even though it’s the last thing Yaz wants—even though she just wants to be alone—Yaz sighs and leans into the kiss. Maybe a night with her family will reset her brain, like a sudden downpour washing away a mural of sidewalk chalk. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Let me shower first. I’m all gross.”

“Wait!” Hakim calls from the kitchen. “Come try my new pickle. I couldn’t find green chili at the shop, so I used red, but I think you’ll like it better. Really brings out the lime.”

“Sonya’s the only one who can stand it,” Yaz reminds him, hopping out of her socks as she heads towards her bedroom. “Last attempt were so sharp it nearly took my tastebuds off. Not riskin’ it again.” 

“But it’s _good_ this time, I promise!” Hakim’s pleading voice follows her around the corner. “It’s _good_ , Yaz.”

Yaz ignores him as she fishes in her bun for the hair grips, shaking out her plaits and easing out the tension of the day. 

* * *

Yaz curls the worn cotton t-shirt around her hair, feeling like an ancient river goddess, as she settles between her mum and Sonya on the couch. Her dad’s cued up an Indian film he’s delighted they finally added to Netflix, something about an alien with satellite-large ears that crash-lands to Earth on a research mission. 

Yaz tries not to think about her own alien who crash-landed to Earth, and that fateful night on the train. Within the first ten minutes she’s hugging a pillow in an attempt to relieve the pressure building in her chest like a shaken fizzy drink. She needs to calm her ragged breathing before her family notices. How could she even explain? _Don’t mind me, this silly Bollywood film’s just given me an anxiety attack… happens sometimes… am just a bit unhinged now..._

Halfway through, Sonya digs her toes under Yaz’s thigh and wiggles them. 

“Sonya!” Yaz admonishes. “Get your grotty feet away from me! I know you don’t wash them in the shower.” 

She swats at her sister, who snickers. 

“‘M bored,” she whines, reaching for Yaz. “Let me play with your hair.” 

“It’s still damp,” Yaz scowls, moving as far away from Sonya as she can without disturbing their mother. “You’ll do something and it’ll dry all stupid. Let me play with yours.”

“Fine.”

Sonya flops into Yaz’s lap, knocking into her shoulder gracelessly and sending a dull pain up Yaz’s arm. With a grunt, Yaz shoves her into a better position. 

“You did that on purpose,” Yaz hisses through clenched teeth, even as she gently eases Sonya’s high ponytail out of its tie. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sonya shakes her hair out, whipping Yaz gently in the face. Yaz spits the hair out of her mouth and digs her fingers into thick, black locks that glow blue in the light of the telly. They’re a little rough, some strands catching on the pads of Yaz’s fingers as she scratches lightly at Sonya’s scalp.

“How often are you washing your hair?” Yaz asks. “It’s a tad dry.”

“Bugger off,” Sonya hisses. She rolls her shoulders and pulls away, even though Yaz is being gentle. “Is _not_ ; been using new product. Locks in moisture. Has different oils and everythin’.”

“You should let it go natural for a bit,” Yaz informs her as she pulls Sonya back to her and presses against her temples to relieve the tension. Sonya tenses, then relaxes. “Give it a break from the flat iron.”

“You're one to talk; your hair is so easy,” Sonya huffs. “You keep it long to _create_ problems.”

“Shut up,” grumps Yaz, tugging on Sonya’s hair a bit harder than necessary. “You could totally—”

“Girls,” their dad sighs. He gestures to the screen, which is a flurry of neon-bright colours too fast for Yaz’s eyes to track. “Do you want to watch this or not?”

“Sorry,” the girls reply. Yaz gently ruffles Sonya’s hair as she lets go. 

“Can we have dessert?” Sonya asks, craning her neck to look over to their father. “I could go for summat sweet.”

“Sure,” Hakim says, managing to resize the screen and mute the telly before finding the right button to pause it. Sonya squirms, elbowing Yaz in the stomach as she reaches for the remote to readjust the screen. Yaz shoves Sonya in retaliation, who jabs at her again before clamouring onto the arm of the couch, out of arm's reach. With a glare, Yaz leans back against the sofa. She taps her fingers against her legs, feeling the soft fabric of her joggers. 

Should she check her phone? June hadn’t messaged her all day—which isn’t unusual, June is rather scatterbrained and often misplaces her phone—and Yaz is itching to talk to her. 

Yaz goes to pull her phone out of her pocket when there’s a crash from the dining room. 

“ _Sonya_ ,” Hakim sighs. “What did I _say_ about leaving your bag and books lying about?” 

“Soh- _ry_.”

“Didn’t know you knew what a book was,” Yaz quips, letting her phone fall back into her pocket. Best not to take it out in front of her family, anyway. Sonya’ll take hers out, and it’ll start a fight, or her mum will want to know who she’s texting and Yaz will have to make up an excuse why she’s smiling at her phone—

“Be kind, Yasmin,” Najia chimes in, sending Yaz a look that slices through the very core of her being. “She’s been studying hard.” 

Sonya flips the remote between her hands. Yaz eyes her critically—she’ll believe it when she sees it. She loves her sister, but she’s never been one to stick with long-term plans. 

“The pears are still good,” Hakim shouts from the kitchen. He’s rummaging around, opening cabinets and slamming them shut. “There’s one mango left. We’ve got Jaffa Cakes, kaju katli, and hang on, let me dip into the freezer… vanilla ice cream, chocolate ice cream, and _someone_ left a Toblerone in here.”

“They’re better frozen,” Yaz defends, reaching out to tug on the ends of Sonya’s hair, encouraging her to come sit with her again. “I want that.” 

“Dis- _gusting_ ,” Sonya informs her, sliding next to her on the sofa again. Yaz shrugs and begins to untangle her fine knots, starting from the bottom. “How do you live with yourself, you _monster_?”

“You need a trim,” Yaz informs her cooly.

“You need one worse,” Sonya counters. 

“I’d like a pear,” Najia calls into the kitchen. “Can you bring me one?”

“I’ll even cut it for you,” Hakim calls back. “Yaz, you want the Toblerone. Sonya?”

Sonya hums as Yaz gently pries a knot apart with her fingers, loosening it like one of the puzzles June keeps in her pockets that Yaz likes to steal. “Can I have mango and ice cream? Vanilla, obviously. What freak eats chocolate ice cream and mango?”

Yaz opens her mouth and decides better.

“ _Two desserts_?” Hakim asks. “Well. It is a special night. It’s been too long since we were all together. Don’t get any ideas. _Two desserts_. What will your dentist say?”

Even though Yaz can’t see her face, she can _feel_ Sonya roll her eyes. 

“He wonders why film nights aren’t a more regular thing,” Sonya groans. “It’s a bloody mango.”

“I dunno, mate,” Yaz says. “This is just how he is.”

The Khans are mainly just busy. Yaz and her parents work full time and Sonya had recently picked up a part-time gig at a music shop, where the customers “don’t ask as many stupid questions”. 

Home is a fickle thing. No matter how independent she is, there’s a terse breath Yaz still exhales—one she didn’t realize she’d been holding onto like a shard of glass caught between her ribs—as soon as she unlocks her front door. She _belongs_ at home like she does nowhere else, slotting into her family like a puzzle piece that’s only a little misshapen, but fits no less snugly when she pounds against it with her fist. 

“It’s good having you both here tonight,” Najia murmurs, her eyes misty in the glow from the telly. She reaches over Yaz to stroke Sonya’s knee, then reaches up to cup Yaz’s cheek. Her hand is warm and familiar, conveying a care Yaz no longer squirms away from. “We miss you both, always out and about, our grown-up girls.”

Hakim shuffles back to the sofa, balancing two bowls of ice cream and mango for him and Sonya, a plate of sliced pear for Najia and the sleeve of chocolate for Yaz. Sonya settles back against Yaz’s shoulder while they watch, close enough that she can steal bites of Yaz’s chocolate, and Yaz can reach over and pinch slivers of slippery, vanilla-flavoured mango between her fingers. 

* * *

At some point, Yaz must have fallen asleep. She wakes up with a start as her dad switches to cable instead of turning off the telly, the volume on maximum. Sonya curses and lunges for the remote whilst Najia admonishes her for cursing. They all begin to bicker as Yaz groggily fishes her phone out of her back pocket. 

Her heart lurches when she sees a series of voice messages from June, followed by a single text: 

_Want to come to mine? Can't imagine not seeing you til you're back from your trip._

Then, boldly, an address pin. 

They’ve been on several dates in the past few weeks. None have ended quite so shamelessly as their first, with Yaz nearly shirtless in a forest, saved only by Ryan’s call asking how her date went. 

Instead, she and June have been travelling around Sheffield, visiting sites Yaz hasn’t been to since she was in primary or stopping by little shops and cafés only June seems to know, but where everyone knows June. 

June steals kisses, too: hungry, needy things, flavoured by raspberry sorbet or goat cheese and walnuts or nothing at all except a melancholy Yaz can’t quite name. 

Sometimes, in quiet alleyways, June pins Yaz up against hard surfaces, her tongue licking a hot, wet stripe into Yaz’s mouth, her knee knocking against Yaz’s inner thighs until Yaz keens against her. Her imploring kisses ask _what is wrong with me?_ as though she can pull the cosmic answers she desperately craves from Yaz’s bite-swollen lips, as though she can read the scratches she leaves on Yaz’s belly with dull nails. 

_Don’t know if I’m ready for that_ , Yaz writes, adrenaline pumping so hard her ears are rushing. Her family is still going at it but she can’t pay attention to what they’re saying. 

Yaz hasn’t been to June's house—hasn’t seen that side of her, been alone with her like that before. Hasn’t been somewhere _private_ with June. There’s something intimate about this invitation that’s making Yaz’s fingers go numb. 

_What?_ Comes the first text, followed immediately by: _Oh, OH! No, sorry! Wanted to see if you’d like to hang out! I know you had work earlier, but your shift’s bound to be over by now, and I can show you the garden before it gets dark! I've just refilled the squirrel feeder._

It’s followed by a series of plant and squirrel emojis. Then the sunset and the phases of the moon. 

Fondness settles against Yaz’s chest, heavy and warm. 

Her phone buzzes with a new message. 

_I miss you when you’re not around._

“Mum?” Yaz says without looking up, her voice distant. “I’m heading to a mate’s for a bit. I’ll be back late.”

“A mate?” Sonya asks. She’s already back on her phone too, fingers tapping a secret code, rapidfire. “Didn’t know you had mates besides Ryan and his grandad, loser.”

“ _Sonya_ ,” chides Hakim. 

Yaz looks up to glare at her. “I’ve got mates.”

Not everyone can be as sociable as Sonya. 

She’s got mates. 

“Who’s this one?” Najia asks, brushing Yaz’s hair away from her face. She smoothes out the sofa-creases from her cheek with firm presses of her thumb. “I like names.”

“June,” replies Yaz, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Not technically a lie. 

“June?” Sonya questions, her curiosity piqued. She sets aside her phone. “Your mate’s a real person, and a girl? And you’re popping over now ‘cos she texted you? She cute, then?”

Yaz sets her jaw and glares. _Don’t_ , she mouths. 

Sonya’s been infuriatingly well-behaved lately; Ryan is a good influence, and Yaz has nothing to get back at her with. Sonya smirks, the glint in her eyes self-congratulatory and dangerous. 

“And what’s so urgent you need to see this June right now?” Najia questions, tugging on a lock of still-damp hair. “Can’t you wait to see your friend? Are you even done packing? Your train leaves at one tomorrow.”

“Let me have my life,” Yaz squirms, swatting Najia’s hand away. “Please, Mum.”

Najia’s eyes are soft, almost sad. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“Yasmin,” Hakim interrupts with a frown. “Has Ryan been getting my texts?”

Yaz sighs. “Probably? He gets mine. He’s not the best at responding, though. Been busy at the shop.”

Hakim scowls, then brightens like daybreak. “Should we have him over for tea? What’s your schedule the Saturday you get back? Do you think Ryan can come for tea on Saturday?”

Before Yaz can answer, Sonya responds. 

“Ugh, _Dad_ ,” she whines. “Stop it! Why are you so _weird_? I finally bring home a bloke I fancy and then you go and fall in love with him. I can’t even have him come ‘round without you interrupting us, wanting to talk about car alarms or butterflies or whatever conspiracy it is you’re on about these days.” 

“Ryan did fix our car for free,” Najia mentions. “He also changed all those lightbulbs, and he takes out the trash. There are worse people your father could fall in love with.”

“ _Ugh_. Have fun at _June’s_ house, Yaz,” Sonya says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. I’m leaving. Laters!”

She pushes off from the sofa, elbowing Yaz in the stomach.

“Ow!” Yaz calls after her retreating figure, pressing on the spot to dull the pain. “Why are you so _pointy_?” 

_I’ll be by in an hour_ , Yaz texts June. She receives a flurry of emojis, and then an impatient _hurry!_ in response. 

Yaz’s heart pounds. No one’s ever been this open about _liking_ her before and it’s exhilarating. She fights a giddy smile while she clears up, gathering the dishes and bringing them to the sink. If her mum sees it, she’ll have an endless round of questions to avoid answering and she’ll never get to leave. 

Hair mostly dry, Yaz sets to sorting it. Should she do something fancy with her hair? Should she wear makeup? She wants to look good, look _pretty_ , but keep it casual. It’s the—it’s June. Her primary objective probably is just to show her the garden and the squirrels. 

Never mind the deep hunger in how she touches her sometimes. In the open yearning in the way she looks at her, like Yaz is the most wondrous thing she’s seen, with the same rapture she used to stare at polychromatic starrises and nascent galaxies forming like a slow bloom of cream in tea. 

It’s definitely just about the garden and the squirrels. 

When Yaz heads back into the living room, her hair in a messy bun and the fuzzy champagne pink jumper that lives an equal amount of time in her and in Sonya’s closet over her shoulder, her mum is waiting for her. 

“When do you think you’ll be home?” asks Najia. Her tone is mostly concerned, kissing the line of critical. 

“Don’t know,” Yaz mutters, popping a quick text to June to let her know she’s setting out. "Not too late—still haven’t finished my packing." 

“Are you wearing perfume?” questions Najia with a squint. The lines around her eyes deepen. “How long have you known June?”

She can be so _suspicious_ , her sharp-eyed mother’s instincts always watching for signs of her daughters’ romantic entanglements—and it’s the worst when she’s _right_. 

“Few months, but it feels like years,” Yaz says, feigning innocence. She reaches out to pluck at a thread on Najia’s jumper. 

“Leave that be or you’ll unravel it,” Najia chastises, brushing Yaz’s hand away. Her expression softens. “Will you text me when you’re coming home? And if anything changes? I worry about you, sweetheart.”

“‘Course, Mum,” Yaz mumbles, dropping her hand at her side. 

Najia’s reaches up to tuck loose strands of hair behind Yaz’s ear, ruining her carefully-crafted mess. “I’m proud of you, Yaz. Your father and I both are. Focusing on work and travelling to all those brilliant places with Ryan and Graham. We love the postcards you send us. Your father’s making a whole book of them.” 

There’s a small sound, a barely audible little click, like Najia’s about to say something more, but she smothers it. The pregnant pause lingers. 

Yaz’s brain, which had been itching to leave, skids to a stop.

What was Najia trying to say? 

_I’ve been worried about you._

_It hurts that you don’t talk with me._

They don’t say these things. 

They’re from Yorkshire. 

Yaz swallows around the lump in her throat. 

“S’no big thing,” she finally says, unable to handle the praise and the depth of her mother’s care for her. She likes to solve problems, not cause them. She’d never meant to be reclusive—it had sort of just happened as she got older and her feelings got more complicated. 

Ever since Yaz needed to be brought home in a patrol car to a desperate, sticky-faced Sonya who gave her a hug so tight it bruised, Yaz decided her legacy would be a positive one. She could help her community, her country—and then, she learned, she could help her planet, her _universe_ , with a person incredible beyond her dreams. But maybe… maybe certain things were only grey, and there were problems at home she could only cause, and never solve. 

“All right.” Najia straightens up, brushing her hands over Yaz’s shoulders to sort her out like she would before Yaz left for school each morning. “When can we have June over for tea? Maybe that Saturday, if Ryan's free? Your father and I always love meeting your friends, even when they’re… eccentric.”

Najia’s eyes glaze over, undoubtedly remembering the spiders… and the stranger in their flat... and when Yaz was suddenly the most wanted criminal in the world… 

Yaz’s family already met the Doctor. Had inquired about her absence months ago. How could Yaz even begin to explain what was going on? She could never find the words to tell them that the Doctor was a Time Lord—was an _alien_ , despite how excited her dad would be. 

She can’t find the words to explain the TARDIS and her travels through space and time, about the Ux and the Cybermen and Rosa Parks and Nikola Tesla. They’ll think she’s daft. How could she tell them that the Doctor sacrificed herself so Yaz could return to Earth, just by the skin of her teeth? How could she tell her family that she’d nearly _died_? How _many_ times she’d nearly died? 

And that she has no regrets, except not giving the Doctor a proper hug goodbye? 

And that she’d do it all again, in a heartbeat? 

They’d institutionalize her. 

Nani waits for Yaz to visit or ring, passing her days watching telly and gossiping with friends, but if Yaz tells her, her situation is made real, sublimated from the hypothetical to the concrete—and Yaz isn’t ready for that. Because Nani _knows_ the Doctor, and then Nani will know her heart. A short explanation will end as spilled ink and a signed confession, midnight black smearing her fingers, palms, chin, tongue—the stains all visible signs of the deep well of feelings she’s trying to deny. 

Impulsively, Yaz leans forward to press her face into her mum’s shoulder. She rests it there for a moment, soaking in the comfort of her mum’s warm embrace and the soft smell of home. 

“Oh,” Najia says, bringing her hand up to rest her hand on the back of Yaz’s head. “What’s this for?”

“Nothin’,” Yaz mumbles. “Missed you.”

Najia lets the hug linger for a moment before pulling back, pressing a quick kiss to Yaz’s forehead. 

“Go have fun at your friend’s house,” she says. “Text me when you arrive as well, please.”

“Sure.”

“That’d better be a _yes-sure_ , not a _maybe-sure_ ,” Najia informs her. “A _yes Mummy, of course I’ll text you_ - _sure_.”

“ _Mum_ ,” complains Yaz, shrugging her jumper over her shoulder. “Stop it, I’ll _text_ you.”

“Don’t look at me like that—it’s a mother’s job to worry!”

* * *

June is stood at the garden gate, waiting for Yaz, awash in pale, early dusk and surrounded on both sides by overgrown hedges. She’s twisting the edge of her shirtsleeves around her thumbs while she scans the street, one of her many nervous habits. She brightens when she sees Yaz, shaking out her hands so she can fumble with the latch to usher her inside. Her hands flit around like anxious hummingbirds. 

She’s already blushing.

June gets all flustered between visits sometimes. 

_It’s like my brain resets_ , she’d told Yaz one date when she’d leapt up, her foot catching on the leg of a chair, which set off a chain reaction that left three tables and a row of barstools toppled like a domino train. _I get so excited and I forget how to move but everything calms down once you touch me._

It’s… endearing. A bit odd, but so is she. 

“S’good to see you,” June whispers. She tucks her thumbs behind the straps of her dungarees and pushes outward, gazing up at Yaz reverently. 

Her fashion sense as a human got _worse_ , somehow. 

“It’s good to see you too,” replies Yaz. June is putting off nervous energy like a plasma lamp, so palpable it flickers and licks at Yaz’s skin. 

_That won’t do._

Yaz slots her fingers in June’s belt loops, pulling her close enough to feel the little shudder she gives when their hips touch. 

June’s wayward hands curl around Yaz’s waist, light as cotton fluff, then solid and sure.

Yaz presses their foreheads together. A shy smile warms June’s face like the sun peeking through clouds. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

June tilts her head so Yaz can kiss her, slow and luxurious, a gentle greeting after days spent apart. June’s hands flutter and slide against Yaz’s back, pressing against her—a request, not a demand, for more. She hums in delight when Yaz flicks her tongue against her lower lip and gasps when she takes it lightly between her teeth. Yaz licks into June’s mouth, soft and hot and electric, determined to make her moan at least _once_ before pulling away.

June does, finally, a victorious almost-tortured sound pulled from deep in her belly. Yaz brings her hands up to cup June’s cheeks as she pulls back. Breathless and a little cross-eyed, June stares at Yaz’s mouth, her lips glossy and kiss-red. 

It’s intoxicating, to be this desired. 

“That better?” Yaz asks. 

“Yeah,” June mumbles. 

“You wanted to show me around?” Yaz says casually, tugging on the strap of June’s dungarees. “Or did you want to stay here and snog me by the gate?”

June’s eyebrows furrow, as though she’s seriously considering it. 

“Show you the garden,” she says after a moment. “I can kiss you later, _in_ the garden, _after_ I’ve given you the tour. Come, follow me!” 

She grabs Yaz’s hand and marches off, footfalls heavy in her boots. Her hand is cold—June always blames her frigid fingers and icy nose on poor circulation, but, well, Yaz knows better. The Doctor always ran cool, too.

Those reminders are pestering little insect bites, stinging Yaz in sensitive places when she least expects them to. Even if it hurts, she relishes in each sign of the Doctor that pokes through, because it’s a reminder she’s still _here_.

“Garden’s pretty disorderly, to be honest,” June comments. “But I like it that way. Feels more proper, to let nature do its thing, yeah? Better for the animals, for the plants, for us.”

Her pace is clipped; rather than showing Yaz the garden, she’s dragging her through it. 

“Hey.” Yaz tugs June back to walk with her. “What’s the rush?”

“Squirrels,” June replies, pulling Yaz so hard in response that she nearly pitches forward. “It’s dusk, and they’re crepuscular, so they’re most active now. I was checkin’ on them earlier while I was waitin’ for your response. Marzipan stole Prunella’s cache and I want to see if they’re still at it or if they made up. And I promised you a show. Plus, I decided I want to watch the sunset with you. I don’t want to miss it. I think you’re pretty in pinks and oranges and yellows. All the warm colours. I like warm colours.”

 _Oh_. 

June turns to grin at her, smile crinkling. Yaz can’t help but grin back, hope blooming in her chest like timelapsed flowers. 

The garden is quiet, buffered with lush, wild shrubs and flowering plants. In the light, they’re probably vibrant shades of green and violet and pink; in the fading dusk, the same colours are oversaturated and eerie. Jasmine must be growing somewhere nearby—Yaz can smell it, all heady and floral. It’s nice. Yaz has always liked her namesake. June leads her along a narrow stone path towards her house. It’s a small duplex, made of white stucco and rust-coloured brick, cosy in the lazy summer sunset. 

June stops by a hammock chair on a wooden frame. It’s got a thick navy cushion that June pats hopefully until Yaz settles beside her, spreading her jumper over her lap. 

“Oh!” June exclaims. “Your jumper’s all fuzzy! I love it.” 

June reaches out to stroke the fluffy fabric a few times before scooting close so she can hook her arm around Yaz’s waist and tuck her head against Yaz’s neck. She sighs, tension evaporating from her body like Yaz’s touch is the instantaneous antidote to a poison and she’s been waiting all day for the cure.

What a headrush. 

Yaz shifts so she can turn into the embrace, pressing her cheek against June’s silky hair. 

Yaz has cuddled before—rare moments with Sonya, with cousins and mates in primary, and more recently with partners—but there’s something special about the way June touches her, reverent and sublime, her breath soft and humid against her neck whilst she traces a language of slow, circular patterns on her hip.

“I like it on here,” June comments, sticking one foot out to scrape against the ground, pushing them off. The swing creaks ominously as they begin to rock. Liberated from gravity, they’re suspended in that moment, just the two of them curled together in time and space. “Feels good to move. To swing. Like… I don’t know. You ever feel like you’re out of sync with how the world is spinning? Everything is too much or too little, too fast or too slow, bright or dark or loud or soft, and you’re never quite sure where you are? It’s all better on here.”

“S’nice,” Yaz sighs. What’s it like, a Time Lord trapped in human form? Despite her understandable distress, Ruth Clayton seemed human enough, but, well—the Doctor was always special, and whatever circumstances brought her to Yaz seem poorly done, almost incomplete, with bands of the Doctor’s former self shining through like white light refracted into a rainbow spectrum through a prism. 

Yaz tugs at June’s hand so she can play with it. June’s not the only touchy one, she’s discovered. There are dictionaries full of words Yaz doesn’t know how to say, forming poems that sound like apologies which shrivel, useless, on her tongue. Touch is a language that doesn’t need words; touch is a language they’re both fluent in, Yaz and June, even if it was one the TARDIS never could translate. 

Yaz runs the pads of her fingers over the ridges and valleys of June’s knuckles; the creases of her palms and wrists and fingers; the round, pink curves of her nails; the prominent tendons and veins which give under gentle pressure. If she closes her eyes, Yaz can pretend June’s hand is a map in raised relief of the planets they used to visit—the varied topography of her bones and sinew and skin stitching together secrets to the distant worlds they used to visit. The worlds they’ll visit again, Yaz fervently hopes, even as she remains at a loss to herald the Doctor’s return—and the urgency of the Doctor’s return is diminished the more she gets to know June. 

“There!” June cries, sitting up suddenly, pulling her hand from Yaz’s and jolting her from her introspections. “See? Look at them! The _cheek_.” 

A pair of chattering squirrels flit around a stone birdbath, chasing each other up and back around a plastic squirrel feeder that had probably started its life as a bird feeder. Their tails windmill angrily. 

Yaz laughs and tugs June back against her, wrapping her arms around her waist and tucking her chin in the crook of her neck. “I see.”

“That one’s Queen Jellybean of the Vengeful Acorns,” June informs her. “You can tell ‘cos she’s the biggest.”

She points to a squirrel the exact same size as the other one, all puffed up like a bottlebrush in anger. 

Yaz hums in affirmation, burying her nose in the delicate spot where the skin of June’s neck meets her hairline. She smells of peppermint and clean laundry. 

They can’t actually see the sun disappear over the horizon from the garden—there are too many trees and other homes in the way—but they can feel its effects: long, glowing streaks of sweet orange and hot pink that fade to lavender and indigo. June is enthralled by the squirrels, keeping up a running commentary with her mouth and her hands that Yaz finds more entertaining than the impish rodents themselves. 

And then, eventually, June goes quiet, turning so Yaz can curl against her and listen to the lonely beat of her heart. It’s proper dark, so blue it’s almost black, with just a few of the brightest planets and stars visible from the light pollution. 

The Doctor would hate that. How human, to blot out their view of the infinite cosmos, and to dampen their connection to nature with sound. _Sensory pollution._ No wonder they nearly eradicate themselves. 

June presses a chaste kiss to Yaz’s hairline, sending tiny shivers down her spine. Sometimes, when the Doctor would work on the TARDIS, elbows-deep in her circuits, she’d create little blue sparks that wormed their way into whatever surface they landed on. Yaz had touched one, once, and it felt similar—electric and hot, burrowing into her skin. 

“I’m glad you could stop by,” June mumbles, her breath tickling the baby hairs by Yaz’s temple.

 _I find it hard to say no to you_ , Yaz thinks. 

“You invited me,” she says instead.

June grins. Her hands slide, cool and sure, to tilt Yaz’s face so she can kiss her. She’s unhurried, almost lazy, conveying a quiet delight and not her usual starvation and desperation. Their kisses are whole sentences, punctuated by gasps and nips and little flicks of the tongue. What secrets is June discovering in the space between Yaz’s breaths, in the presses of her lips, hidden behind her teeth? 

Rapturously, June trails one hand down Yaz’s side, coming to rest against her hip. She plays with the edge of Yaz’s shirt before sliding underneath, her cool, curious fingers manufacturing blue sparks that lick and snap at Yaz’s skin. June kisses her deeply, reverently, unashamed and unburdened; her tongue slick and inquisitive, her hands aimless as they draw lazy, climbing circles against Yaz’s taut stomach. 

Her fingers drift upward still, over the crest of her ribs and under the band of her bra. Yaz shudders and pulls away, a spread of goosebumps across her chest and a throb between her legs. 

“A bit keen, aren't you?” she teases, pulling June’s hand out from under her shirt. She intertwines their fingers. “Feelin’ me up in the garden.”

June goes pink. 

“Got carried away again,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t, um, I’m sorry, I’m real sorry, Yaz.”

“I liked it,” Yaz whispers, leaning forward to lick at June’s lips. She swipes her thumb where she just kissed. “There. Better.”

June goes _red_. 

“Keen,” Yaz repeats, pulling June into her side. The blush is fading, although she’s still stiff. 

“H-how was your day?” June asks innocently, toying with the snap of her dungarees. She turns to face Yaz. “I hope it was good.”

Yaz stiffens. The precious, safe space they created shatters like a thrown plate. Work had been a bitter pill, a cruelly hurled slur leaving a burned taste in her mouth. She’d nearly forgotten, but now when she swallows, she tastes charcoal. 

She doesn’t want to think about it. She’s having a nice evening: spending time with June, talking to June, _kissing_ June. Yaz can’t burden June—can’t ruin the tenuous space they’ve created. This is a honey-sweet evening and Yaz can’t let it become adulterated by a slow, insidious venom. 

Yaz doesn’t want to _explain_ it all to her. 

“Watched a film with my family,” Yaz finally says, forcing herself to relax. She twists some of the fuzz of her jumper between her fingers. 

“Oh?” June says. If she notices Yaz’s discomfort she doesn’t let on. “What about?”

Yaz winces. She supposes either direction she took was a minefield, but it still catches her off guard. 

“An alien.” The pressure from before is back in her chest, sitting there like a boulder about to crack her sternum. “He comes to earth, meets some mates, wrecks havoc. Film were right funny. My mum ‘n dad loved it—Sonya too, though she’ll never admit it.”

June nods. She reaches out to touch Yaz’s face absentmindedly, stroking along the slope of her forehead, her brow bone, her cheek, as if memorizing the topography. 

“Do you believe in aliens?” asks June. Her thumb catches the bow of Yaz’s upper lip, dragging it along the border and sending sparks along her entire being. 

Yaz’s heart skips, stutters and starts again. She doesn’t have a _belief_ in aliens. She’s met so many—a few wonderful, most ordinary, some terrible beyond comprehension—that it’s an irrefutable fact of her life now. Aliens are not a crazy conspiracy of her father’s or some fringe theory on the Internet. Of course they exist. 

She’s cuddling with one right now—one who doesn’t even realize she’s not human. 

June’s ignorance would break the Doctor’s heart.

“‘Course.” Yaz chooses her words carefully, like she’s picking her way on slippery rocks across a quickflowing stream. “The whole universe out there, and we’re alone? No way. There’s more to it all than we understand. If the cosmos is infinite, and we’ve all space and time, then there’s definitely intelligent life beyond just us. We’ll catch up one day.”

“Oh.” June’s voice is thick as though she’d just been strangled. 

“You?” Yaz fights to keep her tone neutral, although June can probably hear the frantic increase in pitch.

June’s hand goes slack; she stares off into the distance, eyes unseeing, pupils blown. What’s she thinking of, right now? Can she see the TARDIS, the Vortex, Gallifrey? Is there some remnant of the Doctor still inside June, clawing her way to the surface, desperate to be heard? Or has June’s mind emptied like a pitcher on the grass in front of them—does her mind go blank if they stray too close to certain topics, caught in the gravity of forbidden subjects?

Yaz sits up, concerned, when June snaps back, fixing Yaz with a brilliant smile.

“Reckon I don’t know,” June replies. Her voice is a bit shaky. “Never thought about aliens before. The idea’s a bit scary, yeah? But I think I like it.”

Yaz pulls her knees to her chest, watching June watch her. Her expressions shift so rapidly Yaz can’t parse them out—a familiar feeling, but one she’d shelved over a year ago.

“D’ya ever have thoughts that slip through?” June asks, plucking at Yaz’s jumper. “Like… you have thoughts _about_ your thoughts, or you have the beginning and the end of a thought, but it’s not the whole thought? And when you try to verbalize it, it evaporates? You try to cling to it but the harder you try it’s just gone—it’s mist, it’s _disappeared_ , and then you don’t even remember where you were goin’ in the first place, and you feel proper stupid when you’re tryin’ to explain something, or talk to someone, or just figure somethin’ out. Then you’re stood there with nothing but a stuffy, angry head because you know you were on to something—it was _right there_ , and you want it _back_.”

Yaz blinks, heart aching. “No, can’t say I have…”

“Sorry,” June laughs self-consciously, pounding absentmindedly on the right side of her chest. “Here I am, sounding like a nutter again. My head’s not right, or something—I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why, it’s like I’m not—”

“It’s all right,” Yaz murmurs around the emotion in her throat. “I don’t think you’re mad.” 

“Thank you,” June says, her hand coming to settle on her lap like a leaf in a puddle. “For being so patient with me.”

“It’s not a chore,” says Yaz, an admission which feels astronomically larger than it is. 

June’s mournful smile has the shape of an apology. Yaz pretends not to see it.

“I’m glad you invited me here,” Yaz murmurs. “I’m right pleased to see your garden, and the squirrels.”

June nods once, staring into the distance. 

“S’nice having you here,” she whispers, so quietly it’s almost swallowed by the breeze. 

Yaz reaches out to rest her hand against June’s shoulder, but draws it back. She’ll move close when she’s ready for it. She startles easily when she’s like this.

“I went to the shops today,” June says suddenly, a bit too loud. She sits up, her knees knocking awkwardly into Yaz’s thighs. “I bought you a gift. I have two gifts, sort of. Not really. Let’s say it's a gift and a half.”

“Oh,” Yaz says, shuffling to mirror June’s position. Yaz’s hair has gone wayward, loose and messy. She shakes it out and retwists it into another bun. “Thank you?”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve seen it,” June grins, clamouring gracelessly off the hammock chair. She trips, only managing to right herself by hopping on one leg, beaming at Yaz in the dim light. She extends a hand to Yaz, who manages to get off the swing with less theatrics.

* * *

Yaz’s breath catches when June pushes open her front door, gesturing for her to go inside. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t _this_. 

The room is awash in achingly familiar amber light. Salt lamps rest on every available surface: on end tables and bookshelves and the coffee table, casting deep shadows and filling the space with an almost magnetic energy. 

“You like salt lamps?” croaks Yaz. She’s rooted to the spot, unable to move. It’s not crystal pillars and metal crown shyness, but it’s _familiar_. 

“Love ‘em,” June grins sheepishly, ducking her head as she moves around Yaz. “Have a bit of a collectin’ problem, actually. Just got this one today...” 

She gestures to a lamp the size of an aubergine on the bar in front of her. “That one is my favourite, though. It’s the most yellow. Keep it up front so I can rub her when I leave and come home.” 

She pats a particularly yellow one resting on a circular table beside the front entrance. 

“This one’s really big,” June adds, walking over to her sprawling bookcases. She rests her hands on a torso-sized salt lamp. “It’s a contender for my favourite. I think it’s also the pinkist, but it might just be location-specific.”

Yaz can’t breathe. The TARDIS was a marvel beyond imagination; its magnificence never failed to make Yaz feel a mix of humble and grateful and invigorated as she stood in the console room, gazing into her heart, protected by the riblike crystals and the Doctor beside her. This is just a pale facsimile, and an absurd number of salt lamps. 

“Is it weird?” June blurts out, wringing her hands. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I just really like them—everything is soft and warm and I feel safe and—”

“It’s a little weird, yeah,” Yaz interrupts her, curling her hand around the crook of June’s elbow. “But I like it. Thank you for showing me.”

June exhales and looks hopefully up at Yaz. “Can I give you your gifts now? I’m really excited to. Well. Gift and a half. Gift and a loan. Gimme a ‘mo?”

Yaz laughs and hops onto a barstool to wait for her. She looks about, drinking in the flat— _so the Doctor did get her flat after all_ —from its antique appliances without digital interfaces, to the mismatched, cast-off furniture, and eccentric knick-knacks they’ve been picking up at charity shops all over town. 

_Guess she found a place for that horrid clockwork doll_ , Yaz thinks as she spies it (and its ridiculous wig) on a shelf in the kitchen. 

Yaz slides off her stool to investigate the collection of papers stuck to June’s fridge. At eye level, stuck on with a glittery, star-shaped magnet, is a photo that June and Yaz took at a photo booth; a tetraptych of June making Yaz laugh, then pressing a kiss to her cheek. Beside it is a little note Yaz had scribbled on library stationary months ago.

_Stopped by but you weren’t here. Liked the book. Will return tomorrow. xx Yaz_

June’s work schedule is stuck to the fridge as well, and with a pang, Yaz realises hers has been scrawled in June’s surprisingly neat handwriting beside it. 

“Back!” June says, coming around the bar to stand with Yaz in the kitchen. She sets a large, flat parcel on the counter and unfurls a muted, multicoloured scarf, which she wraps around Yaz’s neck. 

“I want you to come back to me,” she murmurs, clutching the scarf and pulling their heads together. “I’m lendin’ you this so you come home.”

“ _Oh_.”

Yaz reaches out to cup June’s face. She looks genuinely worried, the lines of her forehead and around her eyes deep and solemn. There is an aquifer of grief shimmering in June’s eyes, one she’s probably not even aware of. Alive for millennia, the Doctor said—how many people haven’t returned? How many Yazes and Ryans and Grahams has she lost? 

June might not understand, but Yaz does. She knows what it’s like for someone to not return. “I’ll come back. Promise.”

Worry assuaged, June lets go and shakes out her head as if to reset it. She snatches the parcel and beams, pulling out a frog-shaped neck cushion. 

“I saw this in the shops,” she explains, holding it aloft so Yaz can get a better look at it. Its little frog face is wonky; one eye is much larger than the other. “Isn’t it _grand_? I thought you might like it, you know, for your travels. So you don’t get a crick in your neck. You’ve said you fall asleep on transport easily. Can’t have you all sore running through Paris.”

Yaz takes a deep breath, caught off guard by the sudden whiplash. 

“Thank you,” she says, taking the pillow and holding it to her chest. “I’m proper chuffed.”

“I did well?” June asks, crinkling her nose. “You like it? Gifts are hard—I don’t think I’m good at them.”

“Yes,” Yaz replies, quick to reassure her. June deflates with relief. “Very well. Thank you, June.” June’s name still feels wrong on Yaz’s tongue. “Ryan’s always complaining that I fall asleep on his shoulder whenever he has to sit next to me.”

June smiles, stepping into Yaz’s space. “Will you stay for a bit? Have tea with me? Or do you need to go pack? Stack the linens, count the humbugs, sort the unmentionables, polish the toothbrush… admittedly don’t know what packing’s like, me.”

“I can stay for a bit,” Yaz replies, unwinding the scarf and setting it and the pillow on the counter. She fights a smile. “What’ve ya got?”

“Hmm,” June hums. She turns to rummage through the cabinet, standing on her tiptoes. “Peppermint, rooibos, earl grey, oolong… oh! Irish breakfast, if you’re not caffeine-sensitive. Can’t imagine havin’ a brisk cuppa right now, with it bein’ so late…”

“Peppermint, please,” Yaz says, leaning her hip against the counter. June pulls out an opaque tin. 

“That’s the right decision,” June informs her without turning. “That’s what I wanted, too. Been on a peppermint kick, lately. Settles the tummy.”

June makes tea with loose leaves the same way the Doctor did; setting the kettle up on her left, tempering the teapot with four swirls of hot water, measuring the herbs in the palm of her hand. It’s the most comfortable in her skin Yaz has seen her, each action defined by muscle memory. With her back turned, Yaz could swear she _is_ the Doctor. 

The Doctor had brought them all to the edge of a black hole once, just close enough that they’d begun to feel its effects, like the air before rain. She’d explained how this star’s death had created a singularity which could bend space-time; an event so dense it began to eclipse everything around it, pulling celestial bodies into its gaping maw.

June waits quietly, arms wrapped around herself, staring intently at the teapot. She’s a solitary figure in her kitchen, bare socks on the tiles, shoulders hunched. 

Yaz takes pity on her and slips around the side of the counter to press against June from behind, moulding their bodies together. She tucks her hands into June’s pockets, pulling them flush together.

“Oh,” June says, shuttering and arching into Yaz. “I quite like that.”

Yaz laughs and presses her forehead into the crook of June’s neck. “You looked lonely.”

“Were just making tea.”

“I know.”

They orbit together, as binary stars, until June squirms and Yaz reluctantly slides her hands out of June’s pockets so she can strain the tea into their cups. Yaz’s arms are left empty, her chest aching while she watches June fiddle with the lid and the tea cosy. 

Balancing her cup precariously until Yaz takes it away, June bends to clear some papers from the coffee table. A familiar face catches Yaz’s eye and it takes her breath away. 

“I didn’t know you drew,” she grits out, inclining her head to a portrait of a regal Ruth Clayton. 

“A bit,” June shrugs, shuffling more loose papers out of the way. Yaz hopes she won’t lose patience and shove them all to the floor. “Have trouble sleeping sometimes. Sketchin’ helps.”

“Show me?” Yaz asks, searching for a clear spot to set their cups and saucers. She waits for June to organize herself before she sets them precariously on the warped wood table, before settling beside her on the maroon-coloured sofa. 

June sorts through her drawings. 

“Should get an album or something,” she mutters. “Here’s a landscape.”

She hands Yaz a picture of a familiar fjord, the trees tall and sure as they overlook the water. There are even a few sheep.

“Mainly do portraits, though,” June muses. “Faces that pop up in my dreams, n’such. You know they say you can’t dream about faces you haven’t seen before? But I know I haven’t met any of these people—I’d remember if I had. They’re all strangers.”

She shows Yaz a sketch of two young women; one with her head thrown back, laughing, her hair a dark cloud framing her face and the other with a cheeky smile and a star-shaped pupil. 

“They look happy,” Yaz comments, tracing the outline of the laughing girl’s t-shirt with her fingertip. 

“I like to think they are,” June says wistfully. She rests her head against Yaz’s shoulder. Yaz pulls at another of the papers. It’s a collection of small sketches: a child with a gas mask; the TARDIS, inked with a blue pen; Willa, in her bonnet; a young boy with a pointed face wearing a school uniform; a little metal dog and a gentle-eyed woman with a fringe; and a smirking woman with curly hair who looks familiar although Yaz can’t figure out why. The next page reveals similar vignettes, faces and figures Yaz knows and ones she wishes she’d asked the Doctor about when she had the chance. 

The next page snatches Yaz’s breath. 

_Cybermen_. 

Cybermen of all kinds. Species? There’s Ashad, with his half-mutilated face, a horrible amalgamation of metal burning flesh; the CyberMasters, with their ornate crowns; other Cybermen, too; ones with round faces and ones with guns and even some that barely look like Cybermen, with cloth faces and gloved hands. 

“Scary,” Yaz breathes, her heart pounding. 

“I feel sorry for them,” June says. “They’re… they’re tragic. Heartless, but they’re not… it’s not… they’re an injustice. Must have read about them in a book, or something. Do you remember? Maybe it’s one we read together. These drawings are old—haven’t thought about them in a while.”

“No, can’t say I have…” Yaz grits out. Now is not the time to jog the Doctor’s memory—she’s not ready. 

Eager to get her off the topic of Cybermen, Yaz grabs the next sheet to reveal several faces, only one of which is familiar. Yaz burns, ready to crumple the page. No matter their expressions, each different set of gleaming eyes carries the same unbridled madness, sadism, and rage that makes even their _images_ dangerous.

“They haunt me,” June admits, stroking the edge of the page with a shaking finger. “My dreams. Don’t know who they are, characters or people just on the edges of my memory. They stand there taunting me, torturing me. I don’t… understand. I want to feel bad but I-I’m angry and scared and heartbroken and I don’t know why. I think it’s my fault but it _can’t_ be. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yaz reaches up to press June’s head against hers. How does she even describe what the Master did to her? How he shut her down, how he nearly destroyed her—how Yaz thought he had? 

Should she say it’s all a dream? 

Yaz shouldn’t lie to her. 

“They can’t hurt you,” Yaz says instead, tugging on the next page. When she does, June freezes, recoiling from the fearsome figures drawn in heavy ink. 

“They’re bad,” she says. “They’re very bad. Very very bad. Merciless and cruel and unkind. They hurt me just thinking about them. I don’t like them.”

 _Judoon_. 

“Let’s talk about something else?” Yaz asks, shifting to press a kiss to June’s temple. “I didn’t mean to upset you when I asked about your art.”

June nods slowly and pushes the papers to one side when a sketch at the corner of one catches Yaz’s eye. It’s of her, holding an ice cream and smiling.

“Is that me?” Yaz asks, licking her fingers to pull on the sheet.

“You weren’t supposed to see that!” June yelps, hurrying to cover the page. Yaz nudges her out of the way. “It’s embarrassing! Don’t want you to think I’m creepy or anything! I just draw you sometimes!”

There are many sketches of Yaz on the page: some rough, some more polished, all devoutly drawn. She looks _beautiful_ , even in the one where her head is thrown back, clearly snort-laughing. There’s one smudged by fingerprints where her head is resting against her chin and she’s gazing up at the viewer—at June, initially—doe-eyed. 

There are little hearts and stars doodled around the page, too. 

“Can I have it back, please?” June begs, reaching for the page. Her face is so red she’s glowing. 

The care in which she’s drawn Yaz, and her utter mortification, have endeared her that much more to Yaz.

Yaz leans forward to steal a kiss. “Didn't know I was in the company of such a great artist.”

June shivers against her. 

“Even if you’ve stared at me so much you can draw me from memory.”

“It’s photographic,” June mumbles, still reaching for the page. “I just—you make me happy, and then I think about you, I’m happy, so I like to think of you, and—”

Yaz smiles and hands the paper back. “You’re cute.”

“Oh,” June gasps. “I just—I don’t—I haven’t—oh.”

“Breathe,” Yaz instructs, leaning forward to grab their teas. “Drink.”

They sip their tea in silence, the only sounds the noises they make and the faint hum of insects from the garden. It’s quite warm in June’s living room—running at least a dozen salt lamps will do that.

“You’re quiet tonight,” June murmurs, setting her empty cup aside. “You’re usually quiet, but tonight it’s—you’re sad. S’everything all right?”

“Mmm?” Yaz blinks against the whiplash.

“You’re off,” June tries again, eyebrows furrowing. “Something’s bothering you?”

The Doctor was never this perceptive. 

“Oh, uh,” Yaz stutters. “Long day at work. Tough one. Didn’t realize it were noticeable.”

June’s hand’s flex. “Were you okay? Are you okay?”

“S’no big deal,” Yaz says, shaking her head. She stares into her cup, at the final sip of tea, and debates getting up for more. “I just—some kids were nasty.”

“Did you write them up?” June smirks. “Give ‘em a citation?”

Yaz squeezes her eyes shut. 

She had, in fact, given them a citation. 

_Oi, is this really necessary? We aren’t doin’ anything wrong, officer._ And then, when her back was turned. _Fuckin’_ paki _. Prolly has a quota._

“They called me _paki_ ,” admits Yaz, pulse racing. She doesn’t like to talk about this, would rather brush it off and then focus on how she’s going to change the world. Not think about how she could have handled it differently, or let it replay in her head. She’ll be better by tomorrow, anyway. 

“What?” June freezes. “They’re not allowed to do that.”

“It’s no big deal,” deflects Yaz. “Happens sometimes. Always grim.” 

June’s eyes are wide. “Why’d they do that? They shouldn’t have done that.”

“Don’t matter,” Yaz states. “They’re arseholes.” 

June’s cheeks bloom pink with anger.

“This isn’t okay.” June curls her fists so tight her knuckles crack. “I don’t like this.”

“Been happening since I were a kid,” Yaz murmurs. Now she’s proper uncomfortable. She _doesn’t_ like to talk about this. Hasn’t really spoken about this since she left secondary and her bullies behind. “Some girls I thought were my mates called me a terrorist. Word got around. Ate lunch alone the rest of the year.”

June sits up, her shin banging into the coffee table. She appears not to notice. 

“How do you—”

“You don’t get used to it.” Yaz finishes the thought for her. “Never stops hurting. Never stops catching you off guard. But I can’t change the world without being in it. When I’m in charge, I can do more. Can’t make things better if I’m not there. Have to tell myself I’m making things easier for those who come after me, too.”

It’s her mantra, when she goes back to her car to punch the steering wheel and text Ryan and scream. It’s what she tells herself when she gets called names or gets asked insensitive questions. It’s what she tells herself when her dad’s words ring in her ears, _don’t give them an excuse_ , even when her blood is _boiling_. 

“It’s not okay,” June says. Her eyes are shining with an intensity that Yaz knows all too well. “It’s not okay that they said that, that they felt that. That they felt they _could_ say that. That you get treated differently and have to put up with that and feel unsafe and I can’t do anything and—”

“I’ve been Pakistani my whole life,” Yaz reminds her. “This isn’t new, for me. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

June takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes and counts—out loud—down from ten.

“Tell me about that?” she asks, smiling softly. “I’m so sorry, I never thought to ask—”

“You’re asking now.” Yaz shrugs. She’s not used to direct questions about this; tends not to offer up her whole story. She prefers to offer anecdotes, stories about mortifyingly fragrant school lunches or how beautiful she feels all dressed up for Eid, taking pictures for Sonya’s Instagram. 

When Yaz is quiet for too long, June leans forward to poke her cheek. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” Yaz says, swatting at her. “Thinkin’.”

June frowns, cleaving the divot between her brows. “Tell me about you, Yaz. I want to know about you.”

 _Tell me about you_. 

What a statement _that_ is. 

The Doctor had never—

They’re _different_. 

Same voice, same body, same curiosity, same sense of humour, but June wants Yaz—wants to be with her, wants to feel her, wants to _know_ her—while the Doctor wanted… the Doctor was afraid to want. 

“My parents were born here,” Yaz starts, fidgeting with the lining of her trousers. “Me ‘n Sonya, too. Sheffield is home. S’where I come back to, no matter how far away I go.”

“That’s nice,” June says. She scoots forward on the couch so she can press her knees against Yaz’s legs. 

“My Nani is originally from Pakistan,” Yaz continues. “She were the first woman married there, and the first Muslim woman to work in a textile mill in South Yorkshire. She’s well proud of that—well proud of the life she made here. She came here when she were about my age. Been through _so_ much in her lifetime. Famine, partition, leaving everything behind to start life in a totally new country, dealing with racism like I can’t imagine… I honestly don’t know how she did it.”

“She sounds brilliant,” June breathes. Her eyes are galaxies, full of open wonder. 

Yaz laughs. “She is, and she doesn’t let you forget it. She’s brilliant and she’s cross and I swear she can read minds.”

June’s eyes open wider.

“Her first husband was Hindu, you know,” Yaz mentions. It’s the first time she’s mentioned her Nani’s secret out loud. Her eyes glaze over, remembering the younger Umbreen’s innocent optimism and Prem’s kindness; Manish’s unbridled hatred; the Thijarians’ noble mission and her own shattered illusions. 

June inclines her head. “What does that mean?”

“She never cared about old traditions,” Yaz grins. She presses a hand to her heart. “She were always a modern woman, my Nani. She taught us that bein’ a good person is about doing good things—doing the _right_ thing. Makes it easier to be me. I’m really lucky.”

June reaches out to scratch lightly at Yaz’s left knee.

“Keep going?” she urges. “I like hearin’ you talk about this.”

Yaz squirms, uncurling her legs and scooting backwards. “S—stop that, you’re tickling me.”

“Sorry.” June pulls away, running her hands over the material of the sofa. She looks up at Yaz. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

Yaz chews on her cheek, searching for the right words. This is something so personal, and difficult to articulate. She’s not used to people listening. 

“There are a lot of misconceptions about being Muslim, yeah? People get all their ideas from the telly, or from awful websites. Think it’s all restrictive and oppressive, but it’s not. It’s quite grounding, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sometimes people will make a big deal about pork and alcohol and it’s like,” Yaz pauses to chuckle, “mate, I’m not that devout. I don’t care.”

June furrows her brows, so Yaz continues: 

“My Nani only taught my mum a little Punjabi—she wanted her to learn English—so mum knew even less to teach Son’ and me. But I’m happy since I know more than Sonya.” 

“That’s not very nice,” June says. 

“It’s how it was, back then,” states Yaz. She wishes she knew more Punjabi, but she’s not distraught about it. Not like Najia is. 

“No, about Sonya.”

“Oh, it’s great,” Yaz snorts. “S'why I'm the favourite granddaughter.”

Besides, well, the obvious.

“Sorry, I interrupted you,” June says. Her hands come to rest in her lap, folded neatly. “Continue please?”

“Right.” Yaz shakes her head. “Point is, you don’t need to speak Punjabi or Urdu to be Pakistani, or Arabic to be Muslim. For me at least, it’s in what we do as a family: the food we make and the music we play at parties. Our superstitions, too. Plus Mum never let us wear shoes in the house. It’s gross.” 

June laughs. “That explains the look you gave me.”

“It’s gross.”

“It’s not like I’m eating off the floor,” argues June. 

“It’s _gross_ ,” Yaz curls her lips in disgust. “You wear your shoes _outside_ , but your feet are _inside_.”

“Agree to disagree,” June shrugs. “Promise I clean my floors, though. Tell me more?”

“You’re wrong about the shoes,” Yaz informs her. “What else do y’want to know?”

June fiddles with the clasp of her dungarees. “I don’t know. Tell me something that would surprise me?”

Yaz inspects the shine of her fingernails in the glow of the salt lamps. What would surprise her? How does she explain her lived experiences to someone like June, who’s watching, waiting, so eager to soak up information because it’s coming from _Yaz_?

How does Yaz explain how some prayers feel like mother’s kisses and that the rhythms of rakat become as natural as heartbeats and a prayer mat under her forehead is the most stable ground in the universe? 

“I don’t go to mosque often—that’s not the surprising part—but when I go, I feel really peaceful. I can go ‘most anywhere in the world and I’ll have a home. A community, when I need one.”

“Oh.” June startles. She blinks rapidly, bringing her hands to her eyes. “That’s beautiful.” 

“Don’t be soft.” Yaz reaches over to punch June in the shoulder. “It’s not that deep.”

“It’s nice,” June murmurs. “You’re a very grounded person.”

Yaz shrugs. “The aunties at my mosque bring _really_ good food to events, even if they’re the _worst_ gossips. 

“Oh no,” June says. 

“Is what it is,” replies Yaz. “Always speculating about who’s secretly dating, who’s going t’get engaged _because_ they’re secretly dating, which daft grandkid’s going to be a doctor and which is going to be an engineer, who’s coming to visit, the like. I’m glad Nani don’t care, not really. She loves a good scandal for the drama of it all, but she don’t care what people think.”

June laughs. “You love your Nani.” 

Yaz drops her head to her chest. “My Nani loves me. She set the tone—could be so different, you know? I’m lucky. Even if they don’t _get_ it, my whole family’s always been behind me, one hundred percent. Nani and Mum knew I liked girls before I did—they swear they just knew, but I know it’s ‘cos I didn’t shut up about Keira Knightley.”

“Thank you for sharing,” June murmurs, reaching to kiss the top of Yaz’s head. “I—that’s—I’m glad to know all this about you now.” 

“Yeah,” Yaz says. “Thanks for asking, I guess? I don’t really talk about this. S’a bit weird.”

June’s smile is tender like a sunrise. She reaches out to tuck a piece of wayward hair behind Yaz’s ear. 

“Stay for a bit longer?” she asks. “Not ready for you to go.”

Yaz sighs. “I should pack. It’s getting late.”

June scoots forward, nosing at Yaz’s jawline until she tilts her head. “You should.”

“I should.”

“Graham’s going to be upset if you aren’t packed,” June mumbles into the sensitive skin of Yaz’s neck, just where her pulse is. She places a wet little kiss there. Yaz shivers. 

“He will. R-ryan too.”

“I’ll miss you,” June admits. “When you’re gone.”

She presses another kiss to Yaz’s neck, but lets this one linger. 

“I’ll be back in a week.” Yaz tries to snort, but the sound is too deep and shaky. “You’ll survive.”

“I know… but I’ll miss you.” 

Yaz flushes, bringing her hand up to tangle in June’s hair. “I guess I’ll miss you too”

“You won’t,” June informs her, shifting so she can grin up at Yaz. “You’ll be having too much fun. But you can make it up to me. Get me something? I think I like gifts.”

Yaz laughs and kisses her. “Sure. What do you want?”

“I dunno. Surprise me?”

Yaz’s eyes widen. _No pressure._

“Of course.” Yaz barks a laugh. “I’ll find you something great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: glitteribbur
> 
> the movie mentioned in the chapter is called PK. 
> 
> i love reading your comments! :D


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